I never asked for this, he thought.
Across the wide blue expanse of the Rhoyne, he could see the Black Wall that had been raised by the Valyrians when Volantis was no more than an outpost of their empire: a great oval of fused stone two hundred feet high and so thick that six four-horse chariots could race around its top abreast, as they did each year to celebrate the founding of the city. Outlanders, foreigners, and freedmen were not allowed inside the Black Wall save at the invitation of those who dwelt within, scions of the Old Blood who could trace their ancestry back to Valyria itself.
The traffic was thicker here. They were near the western end of the Long Bridge, which linked the two halves of the city. Wayns and carts and hathays crowded the streets, all of them coming from the bridge or making for it. Slaves were everywhere, as numerous as roaches, scurrying about their masters business.
Not far from Fishermongers Square and the Merchants House, shouts erupted from a cross street, and a dozen Unsullied spearmen in ornate armor and tiger-skin cloaks appeared as if from nowhere, waving everyone aside so the triarch could pass through atop his elephant. The triarchs elephant was a grey-skinned behemoth clad in elaborate enameled armor that clattered softly as he moved, the castle on its back so tall that it scraped the top of the ornamental stone arch he was passing underneath. The triarchs are considered so elevated that their feet are not allowed to touch the ground during their year of service, Quentyn informed his companion. They ride everywhere on elephants.
Blocking up the streets and leaving heaps of dung for the likes of us to contend with, said Gerris. Why Volantis needs three princes when Dorne makes do with one, I will never know.
The triarchs are neither kings nor princes. Volantis is a freehold, like Valyria of old. All freeborn landholders share the rule. Even women are allowed to vote, provided they own land. The three triarchs are chosen from amongst those noble families who can prove unbroken descent from old Valyria, to serve until the first day of the new year. And you would know all this if you had troubled to read the book that Maester Kedry gave you.
It had no pictures.
There were maps.
Maps do not count. If he had told me it was about tigers and elephants, I might have given it a try. It looked suspiciously like a history.
When their hathay reached the edge of the Fishermongers Square, their elephant lifted her trunk and made a honking noise like some huge white goose, reluctant to plunge into the tangle of wayns, palanquins, and foot traffic ahead. Their driver prodded her with his heel and kept her moving.
The fishmongers were out in strength, crying the morning catch. Quentyn understood one word in two at best, but he did not need to know the words to know the fish. He saw cod and sailfish and sardines, barrels of mussels and clams. Eels hung along the front of one stall. Another displayed a gigantic turtle, strung up by its legs on iron chains, heavy as a horse. Crabs scrabbled inside casks of brine and seaweed. Several of the vendors were frying chunks of fish with onions and beets, or selling peppery fish stew out of small iron kettles.
In the center of the square, under the cracked and headless statue of a dead triarch, a crowd had begun to gather about some dwarfs putting on a show. The little men were done up in wooden armor, miniature knights preparing for a joust. Quentyn saw one mount a dog, as the other hopped onto a pigonly to slide right off again, to a smattering of laughter.
They look amusing, Gerris said. Shall we stop and watch them fight? A laugh might serve you well, Quent. You look like an old man who has not moved his bowels in half a year.
I am eight-and-ten, six years younger than you, Quentyn thought. I am no old man. Instead he said, I have no need for comic dwarfs. Unless they have a ship.
A small one, I would think.
Four stories tall, the Merchants House dominated the docks and wharves and storehouses that surrounded it. Here traders from Oldtown and Kings Landing mingled with their counterparts from Braavos and Pentos and Myr, with hairy Ibbenese, pale-skinned voyagers from Qarth, coal-black Summer Islanders in feathered cloaks, even masked shadowbinders from Asshai by the Shadow.
The paving stones felt warm beneath his feet when Quentyn climbed down from the hathay, even through the leather of his boots. Outside the Merchants House a trestle table had been set up in the shade and decorated with striped blue-and-white pennons that fluttered at every breath of air. Four hard-eyed sellswords lounged around the table, calling out to every passing man and boy. Windblown, Quentyn knew. The serjeants were looking for fresh meat to fill their ranks before they sailed for Slavers Bay. And every man who signs with them is another sword for Yunkai, another blade meant to drink the blood of my bride-to-be.
One of the Windblown shouted at them. I do not speak your tongue, Quentyn answered. Though he could read and write High Valyrian, he had little practice speaking it. And the Volantene apple had rolled a fair distance from the Valyrian tree.
Westerosi? the man answered, in the Common Tongue.
Dornishmen. My master is a wineseller.
Master? Fuck that. Are you a slave? Come with us and be your own master. Do you want to die abed? Well teach you sword and spear. Youll ride to battle with the Tattered Prince and come home richer than a lord. Boys, girls, gold, whatever you want, if youre man enough to take it. Were the Windblown, and we fuck the goddess slaughter up her arse.
Two of the sellswords began to sing, bellowing out the words to some marching song. Quentyn understood enough to get the gist. We are the Windblown, they sang. Blow us east to Slavers Bay, well kill the butcher king and fuck the dragon queen.
If Cletus and Will were still with us, we could come back with the big man and kill the lot of them, said Gerris.
Cletus and Will are dead. Pay them no mind, Quentyn said. The sellswords threw taunts at their backs as they pushed through the doors of the Merchants House, mocking them as bloodless cravens and frightened girls.
The big man was waiting in their rooms on the second floor. Though the inn had come well recommended by the master of the Meadowlark, that did not mean Quentyn was willing to leave their goods and gold unguarded. Every port had thieves, rats, and whores, and Volantis had more than most.
I was about to go out looking for you, Ser Archibald Yronwood said as he slid the bar back to admit them. It was his cousin Cletus who had started calling him the big man, but the name was well deserved. Arch was six-and-a-half-feet tall, broad of shoulder, huge of belly, with legs like tree trunks, hands the size of hams, and no neck to speak of. Some childhood malady had made all his hair fall out. His bald head reminded Quentyn of a smooth pink boulder. So, he demanded, what did the smuggler say? Do we have a boat?
A ship, corrected Quentyn. Aye, hell take us, but only as far as the nearest hell.
Gerris sat upon a sagging bed and pulled off his boots. Dorne is sounding more attractive every moment.
The big man said, I still say we would do better to ride the demon road. Might be its not as perilous as men say. And if it is, that only means more glory for those who dare it. Who would dare molest us? Drink with his sword, me with my hammer, thats more than any demon could digest.
And if Daenerys is dead before we reach her? Quentyn said. We must have a ship. Even if it is Adventure.
Gerris laughed. You must be more desperate for Daenerys than I knew if youd endure that stench for months on end. After three days, Id be begging them to murder me. No, my prince, I pray you, not Adventure.
Do you have a better way? Quentyn asked him.
I do. Its just now come to me. It has its risks, and it is not what you would call honorable, I grant youbut it will get you to your queen quicker than the demon road.
Tell me, said Quentyn Martell.
JON
Jon Snow read the letter over until the words began to blur and run together. I cannot sign this. I will not sign this.
He almost burned the parchment then and there. Instead he took a sip of ale, the dregs of the half cup that remained from his solitary supper the night before. I have to sign it. They chose me to be their lord commander. The Wall is mine, and the Watch as well. The Nights Watch takes no part.
It was a relief when Dolorous Edd Tollett opened the door to tell him that Gilly was without. Jon set Maester Aemons letter aside. I will see her. He dreaded this. Find Sam for me. I will want to speak with him next.
Hell be down with the books. My old septon used to say that books are dead men talking. Dead men should keep quiet, is what I say. No one wants to hear a dead mans yabber. Dolorous Edd went off muttering of worms and spiders.
When Gilly entered, she went at once to her knees. Jon came around the table and drew her to her feet. You dont need to take a knee for me. Thats just for kings. Though a wife and mother, Gilly still seemed half a child to him, a slender little thing wrapped up in one of Sams old cloaks. The cloak was so big on her that she could have hidden several other girls beneath its folds. The babes are well? he asked her.
The wildling girl smiled timidly from under her cowl. Yes, mlord. I was scared I wouldnt have milk enough for both, but the more they suck, the more I have. Theyre strong.
I have something hard to tell you. He almost said ask, but caught himself at the last instant.
Is it Mance? Val begged the king to spare him. She said shed let some kneeler marry her and never slit his throat if only Mance could live. That Lord oBones, hes to be spared. Craster always swore hed kill him if he ever showed his face about the keep. Mance never did half the things he done.
All Mance ever did was lead an army down upon the realm he once swore to protect. Mance said our words, Gilly. Then he turned his cloak, wed Dalla, and crowned himself King-Beyond-the-Wall. His life is in the kings hands now. Its not him we need to talk about. Its his son. Dallas boy.
The babe? Her voice trembled. He never broke no oath, mlord. He sleeps and cries and sucks, is all; hes never done no harm to no one. Dont let her burn him. Save him, please.
Only you can do that, Gilly. Jon told her how.
Another woman would have shrieked at him, cursed him, damned him down to seven hells. Another woman might have flown at him in rage, slapped him, kicked him, raked at his eyes with her nails. Another woman might have thrown her defiance in his teeth.
Gilly shook her head. No. Please, no.
The raven picked up the word. No, it screamed.
Refuse, and the boy will burn. Not on the morrow, nor the day afterbut soon, whenever Melisandre needs to wake a dragon or raise a wind or work some other spell requiring kings blood. Mance will be ash and bone by then, so she will claim his son for the fire, and Stannis will not deny her. If you do not take the boy away, she will burn him.
Ill go, said Gilly. Ill take him, Ill take the both o them, Dallas boy and mine. Tears rolled down her cheeks. If not for the way the candle made them glisten, Jon might never have known that she was weeping. Crasters wives would have taught their daughters to shed their tears into a pillow. Perhaps they went outside to weep, well away from Crasters fists.
Jon closed the fingers of his sword hand. Take both boys and the queens men will ride after you and drag you back. The boy will still burnand you with him. If I comfort her, she may think that tears can move me. She has to realize that I will not yield. Youll take one boy, and that one Dallas.
A mother cant leave her son, or else shes cursed forever. Not a son. We saved him, Sam and me. Please. Please, mlord. We saved him from the cold.
Men say that freezing to death is almost peaceful. Fire, thoughdo you see the candle, Gilly?
She looked at the flame. Yes.
Touch it. Put your hand over the flame.
Her big brown eyes grew bigger still. She did not move.
Do it. Kill the boy. Now.
Trembling, the girl reached out her hand, held it well above the flickering candle flame.
Down. Let it kiss you.
Gilly lowered her hand. An inch. Another. When the flame licked her flesh, she snatched her hand back and began to sob.
Fire is a cruel way to die. Dalla died to give this child life, but you have nourished him, cherished him. You saved your own boy from the ice. Now save hers from the fire.
Theyll burn my babe, then. The red woman. If she cant have Dallas, shell burn mine.
Your son has no kings blood. Melisandre gains nothing by giving him to the fire. Stannis wants the free folk to fight for him, he will not burn an innocent without good cause. Your boy will be safe. I will find a wet nurse for him and hell be raised here at Castle Black under my protection. Hell learn to hunt and ride, to fight with sword and axe and bow. Ill even see that he is taught to read and write. Sam would like that. And when he is old enough, he will learn the truth of who he is. Hell be free to seek you out if that is what he wants.
You will make a crow of him. She wiped at her tears with the back of a small pale hand. I wont. I wont.
Kill the boy, thought Jon. You will. Else I promise you, the day that they burn Dallas boy, yours will die as well.
Die, shrieked the Old Bears raven. Die, die, die.
The girl sat hunched and shrunken, staring at the candle flame, tears glistening in her eyes. Finally Jon said, You have my leave to go. Do not speak of this, but see that you are ready to depart an hour before first light. My men will come for you.
Gilly got to her feet. Pale and wordless, she departed, with never a look back at him. Jon heard her footsteps as she rushed through the armory. She was almost running.