Chapter 1
290 AC: White Harbour (Jorah Mormont)
Fuck. That was his first thought after his liege came to him and asked if he had seen his son. He knew there was something about the boy, but with the way his wavy Rhoynish hair and his strange eyes contrasted with his pretty face and northern brogue and likeness, he had assumed that he was the son of a whore. Had he known of Ned Stark’s presence then he would have never come to White Harbour, but he hadn’t, and now he had the Bastard of Winterfell in his ship, bound and battered.
“My Lord?”
“Your son, you say? By the Gods, I shall keep my eyes peeled! Have you need of any assistance My Lord?”
Hopefully, his exclamation justified his white face, though he wouldn’t count on it. Fortunately, Stark bought it, and gestures for him to walk with him at a brisk pace.
“Any and all help would be a great boon. Lord Wylis has sent a contingent of men to the slums, I was preparing to head to the docks just now.”
This much, Jorah knew to be likely, but to hear it from Lord Stark’s mouth still sent a shock of fear through his stomach.
“Of course, my lord, I would very much like to assist with the search for young Lord Robb. I was just over with my ship, and have been at the docks all day. It is the gates to the city that I would be worried about, as the guards there only think about the weather, and assist the smallfolk with their wares. Anyone can exit the city with a large wagon, and nobody would know it's true contents.” Jorah was rather disgruntled at giving Ned Stark this information, but at the moment his self-preservation instincts were as strong as they had ever been.
Ned Stark paled more quickly and more thoroughly than he had. “Then we were looking in the wrong place!” Stark made to run away, but then stopped and turned. “My Lord, since you were at the docks all day, would you mind looking over them a few times, your help will be rewarded, have no doubt.”
“It would be my pleasure to find a son of The Stark, I shall delay no longer.” As he saw the look of relief on Ned Stark’s face as he headed to the gates, a traitorous voice came to light: would Gwaela have wanted this, you disgusting man? Jorah squashed it ruthlessly. She can want all she will, she died and abandoned me. That voice didn’t vocalize its presence again, though Jorah thought it was more likely to happen again while he was sober.
As he combed his way through the docks, keeping up the charade of looking for the boy, he made his way towards his ship. When he made his way up the gangplank he was greeted by Rook, a beautiful Summer Islander with deep brown skin. He was for all intents and purposes, another slaver, though he preferred the title Transporter of New Workers.
“DIdn’t find another?”
“You fool, keep your voice down!” Jorah said in a hushed whisper. As they went below deck, Jorah informed him of recent events.
“Why can’t we just put him back on the streets?”
“Because, he is the lord’s son, if only a bastard, and if his father finds him, he will know who took his son.”
“So we leave, but not too quickly, as that would attract suspicion.”
“Yes, but I suggest that we leave separately. If you depart in three days time, and make for the SIsters, I will join you after I can leave.” Rook wasn’t a stupid man, but he was rather naïve, as was Jorah, due to their people’s cultural isolation from the wider world. Rook wouldn’t betray him by sailing off before he could manage to get to the Sisters, but his loyalty was far from assured.
There was profit to be made in the North, but to access it, one needed a Northerner. Westeros was largely off-limits to slavers, as every man, woman, and child’s enslavement, regardless of birth, would provoke many a lord’s wrath. Abhorrence towards slavery was a prevailing belief of the First Men that was still observed in the South, even where the Old Gods have fallen out of favour. While the Andals did at first enslave the conquered, that soon ended in order for an easier transition of beliefs and power from the Magnars of Old to the Andal Warlords. When the Rhoynar fled their homeland, their hatred of the Valyrians was second to none, which lead to a unified Westeros against slavery.
Jorah knew that they were playing a dangerous game, as the slave cities of south-western Essos were not without a healthy fear of Westeros. A unified Westeros against slavery meant a Westeros looking beyond its shores and Iron Chair, and should it come to war, the city-states would not survive, as not only were they less populated than Westeros, but the alliance of their northern sister states was not granted. As such, Rook now sold the slaves, and Jorah procured them. As long as no one knew of a Westerosi selling slaves, no one would care if the slaves themselves were from the west. In Westeros itself, however, no one wondered why the orphans didn’t frequent the soup kitchens anymore, if there were any, and Wandering Crows were notoriously easy to bribe. Meet with one and tell him to annually bring his recruits to someplace like Duskendale or Maidenpool, and they would provide him with enough coin for a whore every fortnight for a year. It wasn’t like they were paragons of virtue even before taking the black, though, there were always exceptions like Yoren.
Currently, he and Rook had finished making the Watchman rounds, and were preparing to head home for the autumn and winter that were soon to come, though this affected Rook, who lived in Pentos, less than him.
Another stab of guilt pierced him as he walked toward the Lazy Eel. Not the place he would have wanted to have frequented, but alcohol was alcohol, and it was the only place he could afford. Alcohol and adrenaline were his only friends against his ghosts, both ones from the past, and the ones he made every day. It is a sad existence, but better a bitter ale and a bloodied fist than memory and shame. Gwaela would have wanted me to be happy.Yes, much too sober for these thoughts, thought Jorah.
“A pint, quickly.”
Much too sober indeed.
287 AC: King’s Landing (Barristan Selmy)
Standing before the Od Gate, Barristan was in the midst of a great dilemma. For eight and twenty years he had served in the sacred order of the Kingsguard. I have abandoned my life for folly, he lamented with a chuckle. Barristan the Fool they will call me, even long after I reunite with the Stranger.
Almost a year ago, Barristan had trudged back from his watch to some much-needed sleep in the Tower. He awoke naught a half-hour later to an irate queen demanding to know why her brother was not attending her. He had responded in the sleepy confusion that was common after being forcefully removed from sleep, but then quickly responded to the Queen’s ire. After commanding Ser Mandon to guard the queen in her brother’s place, he set out to find Lannister, and give him a lashing, regardless of whether that be one of the tongue or whip. After searching for five hours with some common guards, Barristan was about to quit and salvage what sleep he could when he came upon the godswood. Under the Heart Tree hung Jaime Lannister, stripped of the armour that lay under him. In the ground before the tree was his sword buried halfway to the hilt. He didn’t linger long, and went quickly to inform the King of this development.
When the morrow came, Ser Jaime was taken from the wood and it was then, in the presence of the king, Silent Sisters, and himself that it was noticed that the deadman had inscribed a note deeply on the bark of the tree. The King bent to look, then swore and began to pace angrily. He then stole a glance and saw the writing.
‘My prince, Rhae. Forgive me, or condemn me, I failed.’
“I want that tree torn down!” The King said with a feral snarl. His anger seemed to radiate off him as the sun is like to do as it burns the sands of Dorne. “He- the traitor, I’ll throw his body into the river, desecrate his bones!” Robert’s rage left him without words, but a hellish glint was visible within his blue eyes. Barristan shuddered. He had seen that look before, in the eyes of a different King. As Robert stormed off, he hurried to follow him, not wanting to think of what Robert’s rage might cause. Large strides Robert took, straight to the armoury. His grace pushed the doors in with a mighty bang, causing dust to sprinkle down from the rafters. Robert grabbed two axes, tossed one to Barristan, then stormed out. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard quickly understood what the King was about to do.
“Your grace, please, think of the political repercussions of this!” Barristan pleaded. While Robert and the Targaryen Kings before him followed the Seven, even if they weren’t very pious, it would create a dangerous precedent that would inevitably lead to religious wars and violence. The south was not nearly as uniform in religion as the Septons and Maesters would like to believe, and if Robert were to defile the second largest religion in front of the Realm, his rule would have to contend with the dangerous consequences of his actions.
“A tree is a tree until it harbours the writing of a traitor!” Robert roared.
As they neared the godswood once more, the King’s pace only increased, and servants and the few highborn up at this hour were starting to take notice. When they neared the Oak, Robert took a massive swing of his axe that bit deeply into the bark. Robert turned to him, and gave him a questioning look. At this, Barristan sighed, prayed for forgiveness, and took a swing. For the next few hours they worked their way through the massive trunk, their audience growing. At midday, the tree gave a mighty crack and quickly gained momentum falling to the ground taking other trees in his path with it.
Robert gave a mighty laugh, and some smattered applause rose from the watching crowd, though the resident Blackwood had tears streaming down his face. Such a look of hate Barristan had not seen since he faced countless a man in the battles of the Rebellion. Robert, however, took no notice, and gave a viciously cheerful smile, and proceeded to tell of the events that caused a massive tree’s destruction.
“Yesterday, the last dragon loyalist did us a great boon. Here in this very godswood, Jaime Lannister died a traitor's death by his own hand, though it seems he was not only a traitor to me, his king, but to the Dragon fucks and madmen themselves. ‘My prince, Rhae. Forgive me, or condemn me. I failed.’” Robert mocked. “A pathetic death for a pathetic man, though his treasonous words had to be erased. May he rot in The Seven Hells with his precious ‘Rhae.’”
As Robert finished his tirade, the court was reeling with this new information, though their masks were fully up complete with fake smiles and enthusiasm. Afterwards, Queen Cersei would not leave her room for days, and Robert went hunting as a man possessed. For all of the king's boyish glee and happiness during his speech, a haunted look appeared in his eyes. Whether it was due to having a possibly very loyal Targaryen supporter near him for nearly three years, or Rhaegar Targaryen’s ghost hanging over his head, Barristan couldn’t say. After his hunts, he drank such an amount of wine he couldn’t stand for days.
Upon returning to the White Sword, he strode toward Ser Jaime’s rooms. The Kingsguard owned naught but their armour and weapons, but sometimes a few things needed to be cleared out after brothers’ deaths. Barristan felt something of pity and understanding towards Jaime. He was reminded of his diligence under Arthur’s training, even though he was already knighted. He would have become the best of us, Barristan mused, though that currently isn’t a high bar to meet. When he joined the Kingsguard, Jaime wasn’t yet disillusioned with the world. As he found his way to the deserted quarters, he grimaced at the memory of the young Ser’s first experience of serving the king. His eyes had burned as bright as his grace's wildfire after he was relieved from the royal bedroom door.
As he sat upon the cot, he noticed a few stacked journals and an inkwell. Upon inspection, they were titled. Journal, Second Journal, and The Idealistic Knight: That which I am not. Upon the inside, they all said: To Barry. With a sad smile, he opened them. What he would read inside would completely change his perception of Jaime Lannister, and the sacred title of Knighthood.
As he was shaken out of his reverie by passing carts, he headed through the gate. What's done is done. I can fulfil my duty now like never before.
It was with hope in his heart that he set out into a world he hadn’t seen for three decades.
290 AC: Asshai (Quaithe)
There are many truths that can be found throughout the world, for truth is based on perception. That is not to say that one will always find truth. Lies, deceptions, mockeries. In Asshai, one will only find truth, though one may wish they hadn’t come at all.
One of these truths one might find in Asshai is that humans are defined by a few key characteristics. They are vain and prone to lust; lust for life, for happiness, for love, for justice, and for validation. No one human is good or evil, but when they want strongly enough for one of the aforementioned things, they will do anything for them.
Therefore, Quaithe was not surprised when Brynden materialized before her Weirwood while she tended the small garden it sat in.
“Haven’t seen you for a while, love.” She smirked behind her mask.
“Do shut up, this is important!” Immediately, Quaithe recognized the desperation in his voice, but couldn’t resist teasing him once more. “Isn’t it always, sweet?”
“I have been granted one vision, and one vision only. A boy with an aptitude for magic will be in Volantis six years in the future as a slave. He is one of the last of our kin.”
His grave voice is tinged with regret and guilt… and… disappointment.
“What did you do? Brynden?” She resorted to using the tone his mother used when he was small. He immediately noticed if his glare was anything to note, though she tilted her head to reaffirm her question.
He sighed. “Magic grows stronger, we can feel it. I was prepared to teach him to warg, but fate decided otherwise. Some opportunists,” he spits this word like the priests spit ‘Great Other’ “took him.”
She sighed. “Six years? If the gods will it, I will be there.”
At this, it seemed a great weight was lifted from Brynden’s shoulders.
“Marry me?” Brynden asked with a smirk. Gods this amuses me too much.
“Sorry sweet, not today.”
“A right shame, that,” Brynden said with a smirk, as his semblance disappeared. Kneeling before the heart tree, she let everything float away. Times were changing, and destiny calls.
With renewed energy, she rose from her short meditation. It was time to move out and close up shop. For all of its knowledge and magic, Asshai no longer had anything to offer her, and she was just plain fucking tired of not seeing the sun. Taking the two seed pods she found that morning and placing them in her sack with the others, she collected her candles and sword, along with money and spare food, she made to leave. While she would miss the Weirwood and her connection to the gods and Brynden, but no one who wished to harm it would ever find it. After 112 years of life, and no signs of slowing down, she no longer considered herself an amateur.
As she finished packing, she stepped outside, closed the door, locked it, and started walking to the docks. Brynden would probably say something dramatic as he looked around the house, then pull up the hood of his cloak and step outside. She thought with a smile. Luckily, I have no such compulsion. Shiera Waters was going west for the first time in five and thirty years. Let us hope it isn’t as hopeless as when I left.