Chapter Text
The rest of their time traveling was uneventful. Jon and Arianne coupled nearly every night, much to Tormund’s amusement. While riding during the day, Jon practiced his High Valyrian with Boko and learned some Dothraki from Morbo. Jon figured that knowing the languages of the land couldn’t hurt. After making camp each night, Jon would make sure to practice with the spear with Qyle, the surviving Dornishman of Arianne’s guard. He was several name days Jon’s senior, half a head shorter, with an average build, and the olive skin, dark eyes, and black hair standard of the Salty Dornish. Jon enjoyed the man’s company and tales of his homeland. ‘Once I find Ghost, maybe I can go live in Dorne.’ he thought to himself when he heard how reviled the Lannisters and Baratheons were in the southernmost kingdom.
Spare a pack of wolves howling in the night, which Tormund quickly and loudly silenced by howling back, the remainder of their travel was quiet. The days consisted of riding on the ancient Northern Dragongroad that ran from the ruins of Ghoyan Drohe to Norvos, and down to Qohor further south. They rode through the Velvet Hills and crossed bridges over both the Little and the Upper Rhoyne which were still as strong and beautiful as they were the day they were built, even with their ancient age. Eventually, they reached the banks of the Noyne, two and a half days ride North of the ancient Rhoynish city of Ny Sar. They followed the river as they rode North, weaving through mountains and over rolling limestone hills and stony creeks, stopping at inns in walled villages surrounded by peculiar terraced farms, through dark forests of oak, pine, and beech. This continued for another fortnight before they crested an insignificant hill, and saw the great city was at last visible on the horizon.
(AI Art generated by Midjourney AI)
The city was nearly entirely built of marble and limestone, located on the eastern bank of the Noyne. It had dozens of great towers lining the coast where those brave enough could risk sailing river boats up and down the tumultuous Rhoyne to trade with the Volentese in the South, the Qohorik in the east, or several other towns the size of King’s Landing along the great river. The elevated upper city was built up a hill and was surrounded by two thick walls with only a single staircase connecting it two the lower city. Arianne said those stairs were the Sinner’s Steps, and during a yearly festival bears would dance up and down them. Most impressive of all, were the three towers of the great Temple of the Bearded Priests, where the Bells of Norvos, one of the 9 Wonders of Man, topped each. Boko said that these bells dictated the lives of those in Norvos. Controlling when they ate, when they worked, and when they could have sex. Jon couldn’t understand why anyone would follow a religion that demanded such control over its followers.
As if on queue, one of the bells rang, its deep resonance audible from leagues away. Mellario said it was Noom, and it was likely indicating that it was time for the nobles to have luncheon. Jon didn’t want to think about what the slaves did during that time. Jon didn’t hold the faith of the seven in high regard, Septa Mordane’s teachings of the evil of bastards had soiled it for him, but at least they opposed slavery. He guessed that these so-called “bearded priests” would be some of the main proponents of the institution in the city. ‘Pathetic’ he thought to himself, thinking of how their gods would preach about how they were slaves because of their own sins, or how their masters were shown favor by their gods and it was the natural way of things. Jon felt a scowl on his face at thinking of the injustice.
He was pulled from his thoughts when Tormund rode up aside him. The giant of a man initially struggled with riding, but after a moon and a half of doing it from sunrise to sunset, he’d taken to the saddle well. He slapped him on the back and said “These hills remind me of home. This place is just like along the Milkwater, but a lot fuckin’ warmer. If I didn’t ‘ave to get back to Mance, I’d stay ‘ere.”
“Mance is the King beyond The Wall?” Jon asked, already knowing the answer. Both from Tormund’s constant tales of the man, and the stories he’d heard from his father and uncle Benjen about how the man threatened all of the North. Before Jon met Tormund, he’d have written this “Mance Rayder” and any of the Freefolk off as being nothing but Savages, the same for the Dothraki, but after traveling with his new companions, he thought they were pretty similar to the rest of us, just with some peculiar customs.
“Aye lad, gonna bring us south of The Wall, put the fuckin’ thing ‘tween us and The Others.”
Somewhere along their travels, Tormund had begun telling stories of “The Others”. Monsters out of Old Nan’s stories, who had brought the world into the Long Night almost eight thousand years ago. Tormund had the propensity to exaggerate his tales, but the fear in his eyes and in his voice, and the usual quiet Markyn agreeing with them made Jon think there could be a hint of truth there. Jon shuddered at the thought and went back to observing the surroundings.
As they grew closer, the forests gradually gave way to more terrace farms and villages, the walls growing taller and the buildings grander. Whenever Jon saw someone working the fields, he looked at their necks and saw collars. ‘Slaves’ Jon thought distastefully as he wished he could do something to help them. Whenever Jon passed a farm whose master was particularly cruel, he’d see a man cracking a whip for every eight slaves as they worked. Jon felt helpless not being able to do anything. He’d only been a slave for a few short weeks, while these men and women had possibly spent their entire lives in chains. He wondered how long he’d take to break in their circumstances. The dehumanizing nature of slavery was one of the few things that Jon could say was without a doubt evil.
When their party rode through the gates Jon found that the city’s beauty didn’t diminish within. The grandiose marble streets were lined by masterfully sculpted towers of fantastical creatures that Jon thought might’ve been from the days of the Valyrian Freehold. While the buildings in the city were more or less uniform in their architecture and design, the people weren’t. There were slaves with collars around their necks in nothing but rags, merchants peddling their goods shouting about their feathers from the Summer Isles or their wine from the Arbor, magisters in robes dyed vibrant colors with jewels embedded throughout, and priests wearing black robes that hung down to their feet with beards nearly as long.
As they made their way through the city towards the Sinner’s Steps, there were fewer merchants, and freemen and the clothing and buildings got finer. Their cart and their horses were placed on a wooden platform suspended from each corner by a rope attached to a contraption stretching up the wall. At the press of a lever, their equipment began to rise. Norvosi customs dictated that all men ascending to the raised city must atone on the Sinner’s Steps, so they all went by foot. While walking up, Jon noted how hard it would be to storm the raised city through the stairs. ‘Probably designed with the foresight of centuries of suppressing slave revolts.’ He thought angrily as he climbed. Atop, the raised city was more of the same marble buildings, yet with more grandeur. They walked through the gilded streets, now only filled with more finely dressed slaves, priests, and magisters until they reached Mellario’s manse.
“I bid you all to enjoy my hospitality for as long as you are in our fine city” Mellario had proclaimed as well-dressed slaves came to take their belongings into the building and show them to their quarters. The Freefolk and Morbo had never experienced the amenities present before, amazed by the idea of a chamber pot, or “A pan ye’ shit in” according to Tormund. Growing up in Winterfell, Jon too was a bit jealous. While he hadn’t been given as fine of rooms as his siblings, he was sure the rooms they were given still dwarfed theirs in both size and comfort. They had meals brought to their rooms and ate without Mellario or Arianne who were having their dinner with other Norvosi magisters who likely would’ve been offended if they were joined by their savage sellswords. Jon likely could’ve joined them, being highborn, Boko as well, being a merchant. But their Freefolk and Dothraki companions wouldn’t be. Jon didn’t mind much as being waited on by slaves in an ostentatious mansion indulging in hedonistic food and drink didn’t appeal to him. He had planned on going to the Wall when the King left Winterfell so he was resigned to eating meager meals and hunting for his food as a ranger north of the Wall.
After their meal, Jon quickly grew restless and wanted to search for Ghost. Jon left the manse, accompanied by Tormund and Morbo. Tormund wanted to “find something to fuck or fight” and Morbo didn’t want to leave “The Snowkhal”’s side. They asked a fat olive-skinned merchant wearing a Tokar dyed bright blue with large rubies sewn into the sash where they could find information on the “Wolf Shows”. The man laughed, pointed them toward the river, and told them something about the Yunkish. As they walked towards the riverside, Jon felt himself growing strangely restless. Like there was something in the back of his head that was nervous while he was otherwise fine. The feeling grew more intense as they walked until they were outside an unassuming manse. “Here,” he said as he stopped. “He’s here”.
They knocked on the door of the manse, and they were greeted by a large slave. He held his hand out and asked for coin. Tormund still couldn’t comprehend the concept of paying for goods and services so Jon paid for him. Walking down the steps into the basement of the manse, they heard men cheering, women wailing, and wolves howling. When they arrived in the room, the three men were disgusted at what they saw. Slaves were being mounted by wolves on stage as magisters and priests cheered and jeered, while they were being served food and drink. There were even some magisters being pleasured by bedslaves. Jon was furious at the sight and it took everything in him not to pull his sword and start cutting heads. He was here for Ghost. He was going to get him and get out. Then he saw him. He’d grown substantially in the moons they’d been separated, but Jon could recognize Ghost. He was being dragged out by two large slaves with poles connecting to a collar, as Ghost was pushed against a slave. Another man whipped his wolf, and Jon’s vision grew hazy. He didn’t remember drawing his Homecoming or striking the collar off Ghost, he just remembered striking at the patrons, sparing the slaves. Tormund and Morbo joined him, and so did many slaves, and even the other wolves. As the carnage spread, more wolves ran out of a back room, having been freed by a slave. The masters were cut down to a man. The slaves armed themselves with weapons the masters and guards had on them, climbed the stairs, and took the streets, bringing with them the song of freedom, played on stolen steel.
Daenerys I
Dany rode through the Western Markets of Vaes Dothrak accompanied by Ser Jorah and her bloodriders Jhogo and Rakharo. After the usurper’s assassin nearly poisoned her and the khalaka growing in her womb she didn’t want to feel idle or afraid, deciding to accompany the grizzled knight when he looks for news of Westeros. Apparently, the knight had a friend who had news, specifically of the North, sent to Vaes Dothrak for him. A slight smile grew on Dany’s face when she heard that, knowing Jorah wanted to go home just as much as she did.
While reading the letter, Dany saw the knight begin to scowl before angrily exclaiming “Those Lannister bastards”, and crumpling the letter and tossing it into a nearby fire.
“What’s wrong, ser?” Dany asked, concerned by her protector’s sudden outburst.
“My former ward has been exiled. The Usurper’s wife and the Kingslayer say he attempted to murder his brother.” Every word dripped more anger than the last. Dany didn’t know he held his former ward in such high regard.
“And you don’t think he did it?”
“The boy would sooner throw himself from a tower than push his siblings from one. Jon Snow was a boy who loved two things. To swing his sword and his family.” The knight let out a soft chuckle. “He was a good lad, didn’t let injustice stand if he could help it. The boy probably hates me after what I did.” Jorah looked at her as a soft smile grew on his face “You remind me a lot of him. You’d have liked him”.
Dany smiled back at her friend, knowing what it was like to be on the run, and finding sympathy for the man. “Maybe he’ll find his way to the Khalasar. We are exiles returning to Westeros after all”.
Jorah frowned “I’m not sure his grace would appreciate Ned Stark’s bastard in his presence, Khaleesi.”
Upon hearing the name Stark, Dany couldn’t help but agree with the knight. Her brother’s hatred for the “usurper’s dogs” was well known to them all. Her brother would likely pin the usurper’s entire rebellion on the boy like it was his fault the Stark girl seduced their brother. Thinking of her brother filled her with unease. She shut her eyes and moved her arms to protect the babe in her womb as she inhaled, before nodding and humming in agreeance. Perhaps it would be best if she and Ned Stark’s bastard never meet.