Chapter Text
325 AC
WHITE HARBOUR
All ports are the same, with the smell and air of a graveyard. It is either a comfort to those returning to dry land or a repulsion to the senses, determining one never rides the waves again. Above the creaking boardwalk are the pecking gulls and drunken imbeciles. Wine flows into the mouth and sea from spilt bottles, some break and slice lips upon contact. It is never a place one wants to become a regular at.
But as the merchant vessel, the Bloodsport, eases into its dock, the air is instead full of promise. Upon the deck, beside the cargo being hoisted up—some of which are silks, some are spices, and a lot of libations—a young man rests his hands upon the portside railing. He is tall, about two dwarfs high if one stands upon the other’s shoulders. With hair dark as the soil and eyes a pinkish-blue, he strikes a chord, if not a brass gong, that he is from the east. Clothes do not make the man, and yet, his garb is simple. But clean. Perhaps it is his best fit kept that way during the journey, safe in the burlap sack slung across his shoulder.
The plank collides with the dock, and soon the passengers are waved off the deck. The man is quick to reach solid ground, sick of the ship’s constant swaying. Just shy of two weeks is how long the voyage has taken with only a minor storm encountered. No lives were lost, or more importantly to the ship’s captain, and his merchant employer, the cargo is intact.
All is well, too well, as the man ventures into unknown territory. The Free Cities may be diverse as they are spread apart, but not Lys nor Braavos can compare to the strangeness of this foreign land. The people appear pale, almost shockingly so. Rough spool woollen covers them head to toe. Some have heavy furs—more sheep than wolf—wrapped around their necks. Some with hats that leave only the bottoms of their ears pink to match their noses. Perhaps they are the richer of smallfolk. But then, again, his rags are no better. In fact, he feels naked.
The cold bite of the sea is a war, whereas this chill within the North is a slow invader. It burrows deep in blood and bone until toes turn black and limbs are lost entirely. Still, to remain in place is to accept defeat, and so, the young man continues on his way.
“They burnin’ ‘em, I tell yer.”
“Who is? What’s burnin’?”
“Oh, yer talkin’ shite again, Wallace. Lay off of it!”
“I ain’t lyin’. I speakin’ troof. I seen it with me own eyes.”
“Yer got only one.”
He watches the trio. Their loud and rough tongues are hard on his ears, disregarding how obstructive it is. The three Northerners, one is seemingly called Wallace, are as indistinct as the horse shit they’re standing near. The young man tilts his head to hear a little better.
“Them Southrons. They burnin’ the white trees,” this Wallace tells the other two.
“Why ain’t we heard of it? The Queen will—”
The third man, the non-believer from the beginning, responds, “Because it ain’t true. Although, if it is, then… it ain’t wrong.”
“What’d yer say?” Wallace presses his belly, abnormally large for a peasant, into the non-believer’s flat frame. “Yer forget yer in the North, Mullen.”
Mullen, the non-believer, replies with equal threat, “Yer forget what city we’re in, and whose gods commands it. Yer trees are an affront to the Seven.”
“Yer Seven will rot in the Seven Hells!”
What upfolds can be best described as a fight, the man supposes. There is some holding, some bumping into a stall of pigs, some wriggling, and then the rolling in cold mud. He watches, immersed in the hilarity of it, until this Mullen character mounts Wallace’s belly and pounds away at his face. Blow by blow goes unanswered, and then the man begins to believe he’s watching an execution. The city guards are absent, or perhaps they are within their midst, just going unseen. A fight is fun, a murder is serious.
The young man ceases to watch.
With one hand, he yanks Mullen off by the scruff, and with the other hand, he shoves him away. “That is enough.”
Mullen spits and wipes the mud away. He’ll need to find a bath, or better yet, jump off the docks, to get clean. Then his next problem will be to find a fire and fast, else he loses a toe or two. “Fuckin’ foreigner,” he spits and leaves with his tail bunched up his arse.
The man turns his attention to the one still in the mud. Wallace. He extends a hand and helps the muddied soul up.
“Gods bless yer, stranger.” Wallace pats himself down but it’s in vain. “Fuckin’ Mullen. He’ll see.” He then looks at his rescuer and his eyes widen like the pigs’ he almost squashed. “I ain’t got much but I can…” and then he peers at a small shack across the muddy street, “I pay yer back. Come with me.”
The man follows, not having a better clue. In truth, he hopes it’s an inn or somewhere where drink and meal is served warm. His brief excursion from the path has left him cold and tender.
“In ‘ere.” Wallace opens a door and allows his saviour to enter first.
A wall of sound strikes the senses. Then, it’s the warmth. The slightly sour stench of perspiration and bad intentions follows last, but it paints the vilest image. A tavern, one called Nothing Naughty.
“Two pints,” the loser of the fight shouts to a maid, before slotting both himself and the man at a table. “For me and me new fellow ‘ere.”
The young man spies a bit of mud transference from Wallace to his shoulder, and he flicks it away. “‘Fellow’. Indeed.”
The drinks are brought and paid for. It seems Wallace can’t fight to save his life but he can certainly drink himself to death.
“So,” Wallace says, “what’re doin’ ‘ere.”
It takes the man more than a second to decipher the slurred and heavy accent that is the common tongue filtered through a Northerner. “I want to see Westeros.”
“Well, yer in the west alright,” and Wallace guzzles another mouthful of ale, “but yer in the North, too.”
Ale is a new sensation, one bitter and hard to pin its flavour down. It isn’t as fruity as wine, whether it be sweet or tart. It lacks the headiness of other exotic beverages found in the east. Ale seems to speak to these Northerners: hearty and grounded. A lack of elegance is not always a bad thing.
The man asks his drinking partner, “Do you know the way to the Wall?”
At another table, near enough to eavesdrop, a chair screeches as it swerves around. Seated upon the wooden base is a wiry and wild thing. Clothed in simple garb like the rest of the tavern’s patrons, this one’s eyes exude that thing called youth. Or spirit. A woman, of course, and a young one at that. No older than the man himself. She makes contact by chortling, “Is that Essosi for, ‘He doesn’t want to live anymore’?”
It gets a laugh from his compatriots, all five of them. Mean and weathered men.
The man feels the spike crawl up his back at their mocking. “What business is it of yours?”
Her mirth evaporates at his retort, and she comes to their table. “Apologies, friend. It’s just no one travels there anymore, at least not in years.” She stands before him, looking like a windswept hurricane with her brown plaits and grey eyes. “Your tongue. You’re Essosi, of some kind. I thought you lot paint your hair and nails blue, and stab yourself with gold rings.”
He’s seen men of that particular aesthetic, although it never appealed to himself. “Only if you’re a cunt.” His reply causes a roar from those spectating, but he maintains contact with the spirited woman. “And are all women as… earthy as yourself?”
Perhaps the mud stains are actually old rain, and the frayed ends of her sleeves are not because they were made for a man. Perhaps not.
“What a cheeky bugger,” she bites. “And does the buggerer have a name?”
“Ben,” he tells her. “Ben of the Rhoyne.”
“Lyn. Lyn of the North,” is given with an equal smirk. “Sit with us, Ben of the Rhoyne.”
He shrugs to Wallace, who’s foaming at the mouth to follow, and slides into the empty chair across from Lyn. Her companions—rough and tumble looking men, all older, all dangerous—glint smirks that promise a swift death. Their eyes scrape and trace every inch of him, assessing the simple dagger fastened to his belt, and the state of his cloth.
One of them, the oldest of the lot, asks, “So, you’re off to the Wall? What’re you lookin’ for there?”
“Mayhap it’s the end of the world.”
“Mayhap he’s runnin’ from someone. Reckon he won’t be found.”
“Mayhap that’s not far enough, then. He should look to Beyond the Wall.”
Is mocking the way of the North? If so, then what he’s heard since boyhood is proven to be true.
Lyn sets her mug down on the water-stained table. “Now, now, lads. That’s no way to make a friend.” She folds her arms and leans in, like a keen animal. “Do you have a horse?”
Ben feels the coin sack on the inside of his old and faded gambeson. In truth, it looks to be something a fisherman would wear. “Not yet.”
“Hmm… The Wall. I have yet to see such a wonder, but unfortunately, we go as far as Winterfell.”
He’s viewed the maps and seen the heart of the North is roughly half way to his destination. No matter, no matter. “The home of the Starks?”
Lyn grins. “We’re off to get a glimpse of the prince. It’s his nameday soon. You’re welcome to join us along the way, Ser Rhoyne.”
“There are no knights in the east, Northman.”
“Aye,” she almost hums. “I think we’ll be exchanging cultures during our travels.”
A pecking grabs Ben’s attention. To his right, he sees a bird tapping against the glass. A black bird.
____________
VOLANTIS
There is a man upon the hill, overlooking the harbour. A ship has arrived. A mean ship. One with a blackened hull and leathery sails. The crew looks anything but friendly. Criminals, mayhap. That’s what the red-robed priestess thinks as she approaches.
“Kinvara,” he guesses without turning to confirm.
She smiles at his perception. Although short for a man of his position, with hair as dark as soil, he nonetheless commands a certain regalness with his broad shoulders and dark eyes. Something lurks beneath the features that separates him from the ranks he aspires to climb. And climb them to the top, does he intend with this latest gesture.
The High Priestess, and the Red Temple at her command, has watched, from near and far, as the man announced himself to the Old Blood. Those wretches that cling to a legacy they know not the depths of, besides slavery and purity.
“What is the catch of the day?” she asks in the city’s particular bent of bastard Valyrian. “Maekar?”
The last son of the once-thought extinct Haen family, the heir captures his companion’s gaze before redirecting it to the ship. Its cargo, not wine or grain, is noticeably more dangerous. Shrieks split the air as a beast is hauled up from the hull. Its wings are bound to its scaly body, with no room to budge and break free. Jaws snap and hiss as the crew transfers it to dry land, happy to be rid of its presence.
“R’hllor’s blessings…” Kinvara’s breath catches, causing her to quiver at the sight. “It worked…?”
“Evidently,” Maekar replies, dryly. “Praise R’hllor.”
She grips his shoulder, feeling the rippling strength. “Praise him, indeed.” Her awe is cut short, however, when a litter is carried towards them. Its occupant, when the veil curtains are drawn open, is helped out of the bed of silks and satins by the slaves, who serve as stepping stones on the ground itself.
“Greetings!” The squat and plump man with a bald head resembles a boiled egg, but in fact, he is one of the city’s ruling triarchs. “What insolence to have me dragged here when your prize could have been brought to me within the Black Walls.”
Kinvara knows the limits of Old Blood tolerance, and her presence wears thin on the triarch, let alone to stain Maekar’s reputation further. Out of sight, out of mind. “Farewell and praise R’hllor,” she pays them, and receives no reply. But of course.
That leaves the last son of Haen to entertain the triarch. “Magnificent, is it not?”
Alios Qhaedar’s robes are never worn twice, and these ones, the palest purple imaginable, reveal all dirt and disruption. Of course, there is no molestation of the sort to be found. A wrinkle is bound to be paid in lashings. “I want it.”
“It was always yours,” replies Maekar. “My gift to you.”
“Oh,” the triarch exclaims. “You are a considerate young man.”
“And you are a great man, Triarch Qhaedar,” Maekar says respectfully. “There is much I can learn from you.”
A simple touch of the shoulder is all Qhaedar offers, but the smile alone promises much. A future. A better life. Elevation in a society predicated on the purity of blood, and Haen’s is markedly marred. Black is not the preference when there are those born with silver.
The departing triarch is once more nestled into the litter before it is carted away by the very same slaves, whose bodies are dirtied but unblemished. The ones paraded in public are nubile, whereas a scar is best kept behind the Black Walls. In Qhaedar place, a servant of another kind comes forth. This one walks but has sturdy boots for the job. Silks have no place upon this old soldier’s body, although there are hints of velvet and fine leather. A well-paid and well-respected soldier, indeed.
“Magellan,” the younger man deigns with a slight bow of his head.
The soldier replies in kind. “Maekar.”
Despite the former being part of the sacred Old Blood, the latter’s status as a freeman but personal message boy to the city’s foremost triarch has its advantages.
“You got him out of his manse. What have you done?”
“Gifted him a wyvern,” replies the heir of Haen.
The beast roars again, catching the veteran off-guard. It is being loaded aboard a cargo wagon, bound for the Black Walls.
Magellan, a freeman with no family name for his family was insignificant, pales a touch at the sight. “He wants you.”
The admission rouses disturbing thoughts in the young man, so he waits for clarification.
“You are being invited to a council of like minds.”
“A council?”
“For war.”
“Who are we defeating?”
“Westeros.”
Maekar’s heart skips a beat at the name. “Is it true the west holds fame and fortune?” Desires of the deepest kind bubble to the surface, just beneath the flesh and fatty tissue.
“Only for those willing to seize it.” Magellan looks to the captured wyvern and then to Maekar with a glint in his eye. An insinuation. Or a warning.
There is a confession about to escape, one that is safe to reveal. An understandable one for men of ambition, trapped behind locked doors. “I have longed to see such a land.”
“Burn,” the seasoned soldier presumes.
Mayhap, mayhap not. It is a hard thing to resist a palpable urge. That deepening of the needle in one’s mind as lust becomes overwhelming, but only a boy allows the urge to win. And yet, it is so tempting.
“This is a great honour, but I must not decide in haste.”
The corresponding shrug reveals haste is a luxury. “Take your time, but he will not wait.”
Maekar ponders a response. What can he possibly promise in exchange for further servitude? “My answer will be yours by sundown.”
Magellan offers parting words. “Alios is my friend. He could be our friend.”
As if it is a cycle of departure and arrival, another man replaces the one that has left. This time, it is a friend of the truest definition. One whose blood shows true in his silver locks and violet eyes. One whose quartered sigil stretches back to the days of the Westerosi conquerors and subsequent lords of Harrenhal. The House of Qoherys.
“Aurion,” Maekar says, “follow Magellan. I want to know what they have under their fingernails.” He leaves, too, descending the hill on horseback for the wagon and its precious cargo.
The wyvern’s hiss scares the peasants, who nonetheless watch entranced. It is Maekar who approaches, as if lured in by the promise of power, and who reaches out a hand. The beast stills, its eyes fixed on the man. Fingertips creep ever closer to the wet snout. The nostrils flare, but there is little danger. Until—
A snap of jaws. And Maekar almost loses a hand. He whips backwards, one boot nearly tripping over the other. The crowd’s gasp excites the beast, who hisses and jeers at its ruse. The young man feels the heavy weight of embarrassment, for he fell for a boy’s dream.
Bless R’hllor it is only shame and not agony he feels.
* * *
The waves are yet to come in, and so finding his mentor is easy. Maekar strolls along the shore, allowing the wet sand to cling to his boots. It’s at a quiet and secluded cove where he finds her. Where the waves are the most gentle and bring with them shells of the calmest colours. He finds her scouring for them. The hem of her white and sky-blue dress bathes in the salty water, but it’s ignored. Her long hair flows free as it is dark as soil. Time has graced her face with the slightest sign of age around her eyes, but beauty is eternal when she looks at him and smiles.
“I’m making you another necklace, like the ones I would make when you were younger.”
When he had nothing to fear, for a child knows little of life.
“They want you.”
He doesn’t bother to lie or deflect. “Indeed.”
She dips a hand into the water and pulls out a shining blue shell. Its iridescent sheen is captivating. “I never wanted this for you. You could’ve been anything you wanted to be.”
Maekar finds a rock to sit on while the lecture comes. It’s one they’ve debated for years at this point. “This is what I want to be.”
The collection of shells are cascaded from one palm to the other, as if each is a regret. Based on her haul, there are many. “At least you have Aurion. But where is Baelon?”
He clasps his hands behind his back. “Making friends with the magisters of Pentos. He’s safe.”
She scoffs. “Safe is a word that has lost all its meaning.”
Believing her counsel to be finished, or wishing it doesn’t start, he begins the trek back to the city.
“Where is it they want you to fight?”
“In the west.”
A woman as small as her shouldn’t be able to cross their distance in the blink of an eye, but she does. There is a wild flurry in her eyes, blown black and large. “You will never cross the Narrow Sea! Make war in the east if you must, but I forbid you to go further. Do you hear me? I forbid you!”
His heart races and her fury is reflected in him. Time and time again they’ve quarreled over ethics and morals, but to deem one place fit for slaughter and another off-limits, well, he thinks that’s the true inequality. But now is not the time for bitterness, and so, he bows his head and quells the fire within. “As you wish.”
Her hand brushes his cheek, leaving specks of sand that she removes with a smile. A kiss is placed there, for which he must bend down to receive. It’s almost something regal, as if he is a good knight and she is a fair queen. A grand illusion, for they are neither of those things.
“Oh, and ñuha valītsos.”
“Yes?”
“Congratulations on your achievement. The Old Blood are too afraid of what’s outside their walls to ever attempt capturing a wyvern.”
He feels warmth return to his body at her words. “Thank you.”
“But remember: the Valyrians’ power only came through magic. It was a lie to believe it was a right ordained by the Fourteen Flames. Be careful.”
Wise words almost given too late, for he has learnt the lesson of keeping a beast as a pet. His hand still trembles when it isn’t clenched.
* * *
“She’s right.”
The temple at this late hour, or regardless of the hour, never rests. There is always someone worshiping. Someone trailing the halls in search of illusive answers. And the flames never die.
Kinvara’s proclamation annoys Maekar, at first. Whilst he stands in the chamber made for prayer and other fire-related activities, atop the many steps to a central platform, he watches the flames as the High Priestess ruminates in the shadows.
As if the answer is found in the pit of blackness, she turns to him with enlightenment gleaming across her sun-baked skin. There are rumours she has looked this young for many years. Too many.
“Let us try it,” she says. “Fire and blood gifted the Valyrians their greatest power; fire and blood we have before us.” With a gesture, she clarifies to the flaming brazier and Maekar himself, one of the Volantene elite. A child of Valyria’s legacy.
Temptation is the honey-soaked poison one must avoid. Whether it be power, the material, or flesh of a woman, it must be resisted. All too many have tasted that poison and been brought to ruin because of it. He intends to not add his name to that list.
“I want you to look into the flames,” he redirects, “and tell me what you see in the future.”
The glint of her smirk, so easily the cause of annoyance, mocks his rejection. “Perhaps you are not yet ready.” Kinvara retreats from the shadows and into the light of her domain. The flames flicker to life, as if emboldened by her presence. They turn red and dance, and the shadows on the wall join in the music of cracks and sizzles.
Seeing nothing for himself, Maekar instead watches his companion. Her eyes remain fixed on the fire, an intensity burns in those earthy-green orbs that promise misery as much as mystery. She could be his wife if she wasn’t already married to a god, or the God. It’s difficult to contend with a deity despite what his upbringing would suggest. It’s all a source of inadequacy.
“I see,” she breaks his ruminations with, “Men. Dead men.”
The phrase chills him to the bone. He’s heard the stories told in whispers. Of an evil greater than any living man has aspired to be, and many have.
“I see them. A row of them for a mile. Each one,” and her voice cracks. A breath hitches in her throat. A foreign sound for the High Priestess to make. “The cold and bitter sea. The cold and frigid air. There is no life here. None at all.”
The coming of winter? It was not yet autumn.
“Stakes in the shore mark their graves. Their impaled bodies are a threat. A warning. Something comes this way…”
As her words die, Maekar is caught up in the reflection of an image. A massacre. Is it his doing? Does Volantis burn, and is he the cause? Years of planning. Is it all for naught? Questions, so many of them.
The shadows hide all from sight until they step into the light. Unseen by the priestess and her charge, shadows crawl up the steps, hidden in red robes. But these are a mockery to R’hllor as they withdraw from their scarlet shields, short bows come into view. Arrows are lit in passing braziers. Nocked and aimed, the sound is enough for the young man’s senses to detect.
Maekar flinches, dragging Kinvara to the ground.
The shadows fire.
The arrows pierce silence and stone.
Her shriek splits the air.
His hand pulls her back down.
The aim is true.
Flesh is molested.
He exclaims, and draws his sword.
Lunging into the thick of it, black fire slices foe from head to toe.
An attack.
An attack in the house of light.
She couldn’t see it in the flames?