XV.

Westeros had been welcoming; same with Braavos, particularly after the Iron Bank opened their coffers when Jon proved who he was related to. Lys had been... unexpected, but overall, the people there were friendly to outsiders.

Volantis was not.

The wary gazes, the lingering looks that followed them and itched between their shoulder blades as the large group meandered from the harbour to find an inn was discomforting – especially as the only people walking were slaves while citizens were carried everywhere in palanquins with gauzy blinds, hiding from everyone while they could still peer out and judge.

On top of that, the group was struggling to add Jon Connington ("Best call me Griff instead," he had insisted, with two Jon's, in hope of avoiding confusion) so soon after the Starks had collected Loras; there was a frisson of unease. Connington stuck to Jon's side, which was a bit awkward because Loras stuck to Jon's side as his squire (he took his duties very seriously), which meant Rickon was there as well, but Connington and Rickon didn't like each other very much...

The city was beautiful though: the harbour was a long pier of white stone, with equally white steps that disappeared into the deep blue waters of the bay, which turned murky brown with bits of green seaweed that clung to parts of the steps or the posts the pier rested on in the salty waters.

Butted up against a wide stone promenade were harbour buildings and warehouses, all made of the same white stone – with the more expensive warehouses lined with veined marble or gold filigree

and decorated with stone sphinxes, elephants, or phoenixes. Moss from the damp clung to the bottom of buildings, pushing through cracked rock, and creating a fuzzy base. The roofs were flat with thick balustrades, and slaves with jade green tiger whisker tattoos on their faces guarding them at the corners; sometimes, there were shiny, copper-plated domed tops, but they were few and far in between. The windows and doors to the buildings were tall and thin, latticed to create shade and let the putrid, humid air move through the buildings to avoid stuffiness, but there was a significant lack of a breeze, creating a thick blanket of wet heat that covered both sides of Volantis.

Robb knew from Talisa's stories that her family was the equivalent of a Lord's family, and lived on the east side of the Rhoyne, in the oldest part of the city. But there was no way for the Starks, Loras, and Connington to have access to the eastern city without being explicitly invited in, leaving them to find rooms at the Merchant's House, the finest and most popular inn in Volantis by Fishmonger's Square.

The inn, a squat four-storey building with open-air balconies that ran around the entire square building was surrounded by pressed-in warehouses, brothels, and taverns. Each corner to the Merchant's House boasted an equally squat, dome-tipped tower, overlooking the four corners of Fishmonger's Square to the south, the eastern old city to the north-east, and harbour and ocean to the east and the impressively large and looming temple dedicated to R'hllor in the west at the far edge of the city's walls.

It was Connington, his experiences in Volantis through the Golden Company, and his connections, that got them three suits of rooms on the second floor, mostly made from brick and stone, as opposed to the cheaper rooms at the top, an addition made of perpetually wet wood. Despite the decent quality, Sansa stared at the corner of the room they had gathered in, eyes fixated on the iron loop protruding from the wall and the length of chain that hung against and pooled on the floor. Rickon stared at it as well, and silently, at Sansa's side, reached out and tightly took her hand in his.

They both shuddered.

Robb, furiously pacing the length of the room and back, didn't notice; but Jon and Loras had an eye on both, while Arya and Connington sat with Bran, who was staring out the nearby window with a pensive look to his face.

"I can't do this," muttered Robb, bringing his hands up to run through his curls, gripping the strands of hair tightly as he fisted his hands. "I can't – this is insane – there's no point – what would I even say—"

"Calm down," instructed Arya, with exasperation. "Tell us again what you know of Talisa's family."

Connington carefully kept his chin lowered, but his eyes moved between the Starks, observing, and listening as he was still very confused about why they were in Volantis, to begin with; he had thought they would go to Braavos or search out the Golden Company or Company of the Rose for Jon to retake the throne.

"Right, right," muttered Robb, turning and throwing himself on the creaky bed, jostling Arya. "Talisa... has two brothers: one older and younger. Her family owns slaves, so they've coin. They live in the eastern, old city. I... I think her father is a general."

Connington startled. "Are you certain of that, Stark?"

Robb turned to peer at Connington. "Not entirely. But Talisa implied that he had military

experience and that her brother would follow in his footsteps. She wasn't in favour of it – that's why she went to Westeros. When she was twelve or so, she and a few other children went swimming in the Rhoyne, but her brother almost drowned. It was a slave who saved him, but if the slave was reported, they would have died despite saving her brother's life. She hated that idea, hated the hypocrisy, and wanted to dedicate herself to saving others like the slave had saved her brother. We met when she was a battlefield healer."

"The only people who are soldiers in Volantis – other than the slave soldiers, the tiger cloaks," explained Connington slowly, staring at Robb, bewildered. "Are members of the Tiger party. Families who can trace their lines back, unbroken, to Old Valyria."

Robb stared back at Connington. "Are you telling me Talisa has Valyrian blood? She wasn't blonde!"

"Neither's Jon," said Bran dryly, turning to face Robb. "And don't be presumptuous that all Valyrians were blond, Robb."

Sansa seemed to shake herself out of her head, turning with Rickon, although she kept her hand tightly entwined with his. She turned, facing the lounging group. "Are you able to have an audience with Talisa's family, Robb?"

Connington answered for him. "Only those who live within the Black Walls can invite foreigners in."

"But if they don't know he's here, asking for a meeting, how do they meet?" asked Loras, who then frowned and went, "Oh."

"Aye," sighed Jon, running a hand over his pulled-back hair. It was too warm, and his hair too curly, to leave free. He followed behind Sansa and Rickon, placing himself near Connington's seat and crossing his arms. "Is there some way to get word to them, though?"

Connington shrugged. "Not that I know."

"Fuck," muttered Robb, standing from the bed and beginning to pace again; Loras leapt out of his way and scurried over to Rickon's side, warily eyeing the agitated redhead pace. "Then we came all this way for nothing—"

"Don't say that," admonished Sansa. Her eyebrows met above her nose, and she stared at the wall above the bed's frame as she began to generate ideas. "We'll get you in to see Talisa and her family, Robb. Somehow."

"And besides," added Bran, glancing at Jon, "The Temple of the Lord of the Light is here. If there is a place where Jon can learn more about R'hllor and the Prince Who Was Promised, it would be there."

"Truly?" asked Arya, leaning forward. "Is it safe? Given... well, what we are?"

Bran contemplated for a moment and then waved a hand back and forth. "It's fuzzy."

The only two who had no idea what that meant – Connington and Loras – shared an exasperated look that only two outsiders could, despite being uneasy with each other. They had both experienced the Stark's strange knowledge and intelligence (as well as confidence) and had no idea how to address it other than shrug and continue.

Jon snorted. "My thanks, Bran, but I don't fancy being a Priest or Priestess' plaything to be

resurrected again."

Connington frowned. "What?"

"Never mind," said Jon absently with a hand flap.

Connington's face was bewildered at the gesture and his frown deepened as Sansa stroked a piece of hair, musing out loud, "Sending you, Arya, Griff, and Loras would certainly free the rest of us up to consider Robb's next move."

"You have an idea," said Robb slowly, eyeing his sister.

She nodded. "I have an idea." A glance at the non-Starks of the group meant that it was something

that only they should be aware of.

Loras shifted uneasily. "I beg your pardon, my Lady, but... but as a follower of the Seven..."

"Mm, yes, I see," replied Sansa, vigorously stroking the hair. Her gaze went a bit distant before she spoke, zeroing in on Rickon. "Rickon, you and Loras should go... explore."

Rickon's eyebrows jumped. "Explore? Sans—"

"Explore. The. City. Rickon," enunciated Sansa through her teeth, her mouth stretched in a brittle

smile, eyes very wide. "Particularly the eastern side of the Long Bridge." Rickon stared at her for a long moment, then—

"Oh. Ooooohh. Um. Aye, Sansa. Um. Loras and I can, uh, explore the city." He eyed Loras, who, utterly confused, just nodded in agreement.

The Starks were odd, the youngest Tyrell son decided.

The buildings may have been the same colour like those found in the Reach – a type of smooth, white marble or other white stone – but to Loras, the Reach was prettier and had far less moss and damp creeping around his ankles. The heat was also nigh unbearable, and he shifted awkwardly in the leathered armour that Jon gave him, feeling the sweat gather around his neck, down along his back where the tunic and leather pressed into him, around his waist, and his armpits.

Rickon seemed to be perpetually flushed, a charming pink tinge to his pale cheek that gave him a bit of an angelic appearance, especially with his curly auburn hair; Loras knew that was not the truth, because out of all the Starks, Rickon was very much the most devilish of them, and the glint in his eyes as they strolled toward the tall black wall made Loras wary.

"Do you have any ideas?" he asked the slightly older teen.

Rickon tossed his head a bit, a wild move, and sent Loras a toothy grin. "A few."

Loras felt annoyance creep up on him. "Well, are you going to share?"

The grin spread wider. "Why? Not telling you gets you annoyed and it's amusing."

Loras grumbled something uncomplimentary under his breath and Rickon laughed, but then took pity on him and said, "We're going to try the front door first."

"The front door?" repeated Loras incredulously.

They turned the corner to the street they were on, one that emptied out into a large courtyard, an empty square before the black wall that separated Old Volantis from the rest of the city. They stared up at the tall wall, the tiny figures of Tigers patrolling the top and along the bottom, and the way people would shy away from the structure with their slaves and palanquins moving away from it.

Loras tipped his head back, eyes wide. Never in a million years had he ever thought he would be travelling the known world and would see sights such as the Black Wall of Volantis – he had always just aspired to be a knight, to earn the title "Ser," and perhaps one day have songs of great victories written and sung about him.

He turned with shining eyes to Rickon, only to see Rickon frown, a derisive look on his face when he muttered, "The Wall is bigger."

You must be japing, thought Loras, blinking after Rickon as he strode through the busy square, moving around palanquins, slaves, and other sorts of people moving this way and that – and quite a few merchants or pirates – and Loras scrambled after him. He caught up when Rickon stopped before one of the heavily armoured Tigers standing to attention by a large, metal gate deeply set into the wall.

Up close, the Wall was a gorgeous black stone, a seamless piece that had veins of silver – or something like silver – running through it. They mimicked cracks, but it was more of a discolouration that gave the Wall an otherworldly feeling to it.

"Afternoon," said Rickon, although his courtesies were poor. Loras had to intervene.

"Good Sers," he said instead, smoothly integrating himself by putting himself at Rickon's shoulder. He nodded at both tiger cloaks who stared forward and ignored both completely. "We are hoping to gain entrance into the Old City so that one of our company can meet with the Maegyr family, on a topic of great importance."

Neither tiger cloak moved, but Loras distinctly felt the air cool around them. Rickon narrowed his eyes. "Oi—"

Loras yanked him back. "Ah, well, our thanks anyway—" He hissed at Rickon: "We need to go!" and pulled him back further, tripping over their heels as they stumbled.

Rickon shook him off when they were halfway through the square's crowd. "What the fuck was that?"

Loras stared. "Are you mad? They were more likely to skewer us than speak! They weren't going to say anything, and we were just drawing attention to ourselves!"

Rickon scowled.

"Your idea wasn't bad, but it wouldn't have worked," Loras tried to soothe. "Surely your other plans are better?"

"My plans are good," muttered Rickon petulantly. He even crossed his arms, and the two continued walking until they crossed the square entirely and then stopped to speak next to one of the white buildings, completely juxtaposed in architecture and colour to the smooth Black Wall before them.

Loras wanted to shake him. "Do you have a death wish!?"

"No," muttered Rickon, looking anywhere but Loras. He seemed to focus on the building beside them, and then looked across to the Wall, and then up at the building, toward the domed roof.

"You could have fooled me!" snapped Loras. "And then what would I tell Lord Jon—"

"He's not a lord," sighed Rickon, rolling off the building with his shoulder and walking along it until he reached a tiny, narrow space between that building and the next. The entrance was about shoulder-width for Loras in his armour, and Rickon (being a bit broader) frowned as he eyed it.

Loras trailed after him, ignoring his new friend. "I'd have to say that his youngest brother was murdered before me! How can I be a knight when I would allow something like that to happen? Well, I couldn't, could I? I'm to be a knight, Rickon, a knight! I'd have to defend you – to – to the death, or something! And then where would I be? A dead body in a foreign country, that's what!"

Rickon rolled his eyes, stepped into the narrow alley, and then began to feel the walls on either side.

Loras, pouting and feeling ignored, asked, "What are you doing?"

Rickon didn't answer, finding a foothold and then beginning to climb up, climbing the wall and switching from one side of the building to the one next to him. Loras gapped at him.

"Find your way to the roof if you're not going to follow me!" called down the young Stark who was clearly part goat.

Loras stared and then turned on his heel, grumbling, as he strode back out toward the square and then to the building's entrance, passing a few startled locals as he found the stairs and began climbing them, two at a time until he reach the top floor. A narrow window was open, not letting in any breeze despite the wooden shutters latched against the side of the wall.

Loras stuck his head out, twisted, and looked up. The roof wasn't too far away, and there was an overhang he could grab. He determinedly did not look in the opposite direction to see how high he was.

Instead, he hefted himself backward and out, bum on the window's ledge, and the stood, carefully reaching around for handholds. His hands were slick with sweat from nerves and the humidity, but he swallowed thickly and reached out for the wooden shutter and began to edge his way along a tiny, rounded frieze while clutching to the shutter.

Loras looked up. He bit his lip and felt his legs shake. Slowly, he extended on arm, his hand grasping the ledge above him. He flexed his hand and tightened his grip, despite having a death- hold on the shutter with the other. He had to let go.

"It'll be alright, Loras," a voice from above said, and he jerked his head up. Rickon was leaning over the edge, a hand extended. "Take my hand."

Loras stared for a moment and then nodded. He slowly let go of the shutter and extended his hand. Rickon took it, tightening his grasp around his.

Feeling a bit more secure, Loras put his foot on the wooden shutter and pushed up, his other hand tight on the ledge and with Rickon pulling.

The shutter broke, and then he was falling, heart in this throat, and his thoughts flying too fast to make out: I'm sorry mother Father forgive me I'll never see Margie again – I'll never be a knight that's all I ever wanted – to make someone proud—

But a jerk on his arm made him gasp and look up.

Rickon strained under the weight, and grunted, "C'mon!" and then something else in a guttural language.

Loras scrambled, feet kicking off against the building, slipping on the slick stone from the heat and humidity, but eventually, Rickon hauled him by the waist over the ledge and Loras collapsed next to him on the roof, both their heads leaning against the copper dome; Rickon facing the sky and Loras practically kissing the dome with his butt facing the sky.

He gasped, certain fear of heights was now forever a phobia of his, "I never want to do that again!" Rickon grunted his agreement. "You weigh as much as an ice spider!"

Loras sent him a glare. Rickon caught the look and was a bit abashed, but then his lips twitched. "Don't," wanted Loras, his voice stern. He tried to sound like Willas and Garlan.

But Rickon's mouth curled up.

"Don't," he stressed again, but then Rickon was laughing, curling up on his side and clutching it.

"Rickon!" whined Loras, his own traitorous mouth turning up, and soon he was laughing too, the two of them rolling about the roof.

They wound down, lying there on the roof, and basking in the hot sun as their giggles died off. Finally, Loras asked, "Where did you learn to climb like that?"

"Skagos," replied Rickon quietly, a slight smile on his face. "It's mostly rocks and caves. Had to learnt o jump from one to the other when running away from the cannibals."

Loras stared.

Rickon glanced over at him, that smile still on his face, curls awry. "You don't believe me."

"No, it's just – well," Loras struggled, biting his lip. "You're a Lord's son. Lord Stark's son. Why would you be in Skagos?"

Rickon turned away, looking up at the sky and squinting against the sun. A dark, ugly look passed over his face. "Winterfell was taken. I escaped with Osha and we ended up on Skagos. I spent most of my life there. I didn't even remember my parent's faces until we came back and saw them again in Winterfell. I always pictured Jon and Sansa in their place."

"Why would Winterfell be taken?" gapped Loras, sitting up on his elbows. "It's a fortress! One of the most ancient and largest castles in Westeros!"

Rickon's mouth turned down into a heavy frown. "Because there was a war." "A war...?"

But Rickon rose onto his heels, peering across the building to the Black Wall before them, eye level to the guards who had spotted them but otherwise did nothing, thinking they were two boys climbing to the roof to escape the flow of people below and engage in some tomfoolery.

"Rickon?" pressed Loras gently.

Rickon startled out of his thoughts, turning an apologetic smile on Loras, although the younger teen noted it did not reach his blue eyes.

"C'mon," said Rickon, getting to his feet. "I've an idea that I can tell Sansa."

He held out a hand to Loras, inviting him to take it. Slowly, Loras did so. Rickon hauled him up, his hand tight and warm in his, standing close and smiling at him despite smelling like sweat and something else that Loras noticed the Starks all smelled like: a woodsy, earthen scent that made him shiver.

"Let's get back down," said Rickon, letting go of his hand and turning to pick his way around the dome.

"We're taking the stairs, right?" called Loras after him, a plaintive whine in his voice. Rickon laughed.

Volantis' temple to R'hllor was an architectural behemoth. They approached the temple slowly, still some of the few walking on their own power as opposed to the many worshippers who visited by their palanquins.

The temple itself was large and square, made of the same black, cracking stone that made up the Old Volantis wall, silvery veins running through the smooth material. Blocky, the temple had two sets of stairs running up to the elevated base, with a long strip down the middle between the stairs creating a channel filled with a dark liquid that perpetually burned, fire dancing on top of the liquid.

Jon, Connington, and Arya all shared a wary glance, but then began ascending the steps; Jon lost count somewhere near fifty and realized they weren't even halfway up yet. However, upon reaching the base, he took a moment to turn and survey the entirety of Volantis and the darkened harbourfront, tiny pinpricks of torchlight wavering like stars against the sky. The laughter and ambient noise of the city were dulled that high up, creating a pocket feeling of removal from the people below.

Turning back, he faced the temple itself: the base extended into a rectangular courtyard with smoothed blocks of white stone that extended to a colonnade on either side, twisting up around itself and disappearing into the darkened recesses of the architrave. Only from the flickering flames could Jon vaguely make out that there was some type of frieze, but he couldn't tell what the images were.

The three passed through a columned ambulatory, went up another four steps, and entered the temple proper. The floor was still the same shining white like the exterior, but the columns were black. In front of each column was a large brazier with a bright yellow-orange flame that generated a discomforting level of heat that hung in the temple despite the naos being open-aired. While this allowed for a non-existent breeze to pass through and make the flames around them dance, Volantis' humidity and general weather made the temple feel smothering instead, especially as the flames gave off a sickly-sweet smell, with some type of incense burned in the coals.

In between the braziers and columns were humanoid statues, repetitions of the same two people over and over in various positions: closest to the entrance at the ambulatory, they stood, one male – presumably Azor Ahai – in a regular, relaxed pose staring straight ahead to the female opposite him, Nissa Nissa. As they walked down the naos, the figures changed; their faces warped into fear and worry, into acceptance and determination. Azor Ahai went from a relaxed standing position to hunched over, crafting something like the Smith; Nissa Nissa went from venerating to a resigned

figure on her knees. The final Nissa Nissa statue was her statue lying prone on the floor, arm outstretched toward Azor Ahai, who stood with a sword, tip facing the floor.

The temple itself was covered with a high, domed roof; hanging from the ceiling beams and looking like they were floating, were flaming balls of light, creating an artificial reflection of the stars outside in the night sky. Stationary, they were situated around a large flaming ball representing the sun. Immediately below the sun was a tall masculine figure, standing aloft with a sword held out in front of him with one hand, pointing toward the entrance and the three visitors.

It was on fire, a vibrant rippling bluish-white that was warmer than anything else in the temple.

The three stared up at the figure in silence for a long moment, until Jon broke it. He kept his face turned toward the figure of Azor Ahai but spoke to Connington. "What was he like?"

Connington knew Jon didn't mean Asshai's Last Hero. "He was the best man I ever had the pleasure of knowing. Being in his presence was the greatest gift I could have ever received."

Jon made a noise, urging Connington on.

"He was always kind; people loved Rhaegar," said Connington, his voice low and taking on a soft quality as he reminisced of the prince. "He could play the harp better than any bard could – he made grown warriors weep and could quicken the heart with the right pluck of the strings. He was always generous to the people of King's Landing. Sometimes, he'd sneak out and play his harp in taverns and then donate all the money he earned to the nearest poor house."

Arya snorted. "Sounds too good to be true. No one is that perfect."

"Rhaegar was," protested Connington sharply, eyes cutting toward her. "He was that good. He was the finest warrior there was—"

"Second only to Arthur Dayne, I'm sure," interrupted Arya.

"—but was well-read and scholarly," continued Connington, blithely ignoring Arya. "He was the most well-rounded man I ever met. He could quote passages from the driest texts and even once schooled a Maester on the teachings of the Seven when we were in the Crownlands. He had the best riding seat of all of us..."

"You, Arthur, and who else?" asked Jon curiously, turning partially toward the tall, rough man.

"Myles Mooton," said Connington, quietly. "He died at the Battle of the Bells. The Usurper killed him. He was just six and ten and recently knighted by Rhaegar, whom he squired for."

Arya kept quiet, not offering anything there.

"Richard Lonmouth, too," added Connington, despondent. "He disappeared after the battle. There was no body, that I heard of, but I was already exiled by then by Aerys, badly wounded from the beating Baratheon gave me. He nearly killed me there."

The flames from the giant sun above Azor Ahai flickered and cast a sinister shadow across the statue's face, making it seem like the man was looking down at them. Melissandre had said so much about the Prince Who Was Promised to Jon at Castle Black, about his role in the Long Night; about purpose – about duty.

"Did you know?"

Connington turned to Jon, perplexed. "Know what, Your Grace?" Arya stifled a sigh.

Jon turned to face his father's friend. "About the prophecy."

The redhead froze, blinking in shock. "W-What? What prophecy?" "Shit," muttered Arya, turning away, biting at her lip.

Jon shut his eyes and heaved a sigh. "That's a no then." He ran a hand over his hair, tightly pulled back in his bun. "Gods. Did he tell anyone?"

"What—"

Jon turned to Connington. "I know we told you some of it on the boat but couldn't really elaborate because of Loras. I think you should know what some of the war was actually about."

Connington stared, incredulity all over his face, weathered and lined from stress and age and exposure to the harsh Essosi elements as Jon went over what he was told of Rhaegar's learning of Azor Ahai, Melissandre's information from the priests and priestesses of R'hhlor, and even his death and resurrection.

"I – Gods above –" Connington brought his hands up and pressed the heels of his palms into his face, his shoulders curled. Stress made the lines of his face sharper when his hands pulled away. "How – How do you know all this? For sure?"

Arya quirked her eyebrows at the man, and despite the comical height difference between them, she came across as entirely confident and almost looming. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Griff? We're from the future."

Connington gave Arya a bald stare and then turned to Jon, silently asking for the truth.

Wincing, Jon muttered, "Yeah, no, Arya's right. We died and came back to life." He paused, consideringly. "It was kind of neat, actually."

"Then you have been blessed by R'hllor, praise be his light!"

Jon and Connington both jumped, startled, and whirled to face the speaker of the voice. Behind them, a red-robed priest of R'hllor stood with their hands clasped before them, the tight sleeves of their robe an ombre of colour to mimic a flame's progression from black, to red, to orange and finishing on yellow and white around the collar. They were bald and had no eyebrows. Their eyes were a deep colour that seemed reddish, but that could have been a trick of the flickering light around them. A ruby broach at the high-collared neck of their robes caught the light and gleamed.

Casting a wary glance around, Jon saw that they were the subject of many stares; priests and priestesses had appeared, summoned from somewhere well beyond the columns from the dark recesses around them, and were either hovering just partially out of sight, with only the flames revealing them or milling closer and closer to the three.

Arya shifted a bit closer toward him.

"If you say so," Jon finally said, hedgingly.

Connington caught onto his tone and shifted, seeing Arya's hand resting lightly at her side. He

took in the growing crowd of red-eyed priests and priestesses and swallowed thickly.

"Are you here to gain further wisdom from the Lord of the Light?" the same priest asked, head slightly tilted to the side. He held out a hand, sweeping it toward the statue. "Why don't you look into the fire?"

Jon grimaced. "I'm actually here for information. Do you have an archive or anything like that?" The priest blinked. "An archive?"

"Or is your information about Azor Ahai mainly orally passed down?" continued Jon, trying to push through the uncomfortable feeling of being around so many potential magic users. Perhaps not all were like Melissandre – after all, she was from Asshai or studied there and that didn't mean this priest was the same – but there was an itch under Jon's skin, a warning.

The priest paused, thinking. "We have had scribes take down the histories of our hero for thousands of years. But we have never allowed an outsider to see them."

"Then perhaps you'd be willing to speak to us about what you know instead," offered Arya bluntly, pushing a bit so she was shoulder-to-chest with Jon, given her height. "We wouldn't wish to overstep."

The priest looked at Arya, something shifting over his face as his dark eyes roamed over her face. "You are very expressive for one of your kind."

Connington turned to the girl, confusion flickering over him once before realizing Jon hadn't moved and knew what the priest was talking about. Instead, he shifted again into nonchalance.

"I left but retained my skills," answered Arya smoothly. "And they certainly aren't out of practice."

The priest stared at her before decisively turning away to Jon. There was interest on his face when he looked at him. "Why do you wish to know of Azor Ahai? Not many Westerosi know that name."

Jon's response was wry. "I'm intimately familiar with the legend. A red priestess from Asshai was the one who told it to me, particularly after she brought me back from the dead."

There was a stillness – the kind that comes from pointed, dedicated zeroing in on something – following Jon's voice. The priest beside them looked at Jon hungrily, lingering on key vulnerable points visible on Jon's skin.

"Oh?" the man asked, but when Jon failed to speak, he inaudibly sighed. His mouth twisted into a wry expression, himself, and he nodded once at Jon. "Very well. I shall speak to you of the Prince Who Was Promised."

Connington startled at the name, eyes darting toward Jon in shock. The priest caught this, resumed his interested gaze on the curly-haired Stark, but shook it off and launched into an explanation of Azor Ahai that was commonly known to most: "Thousands of years ago, a great warrior rose to combat the growing darkness that covered the entire land – from Westeros to Essos, to Sothyros and further – it covered the entire world. We call this hero Azor Ahai, the Prince Who Was Promised, but many other cultures elsewhere have their own names for him: Hyrkoon the Hero, Yin Tar, Neferion, and Eldric Shadowchaser."

At the last, Arya pursed her lips. "That's awfully similar to the Northern name of Edric."

"Eldric?" confirmed Jon, humming contemplatively. "Aye... it is."

The priest nodded. "Just so. The North of Westeros speaks of a last hero who gained the aid of the children of the forest; perhaps they are one and the same. Tales from Yi Ti speak of a heroic woman with a monkey's tail. Regardless, everywhere you go, there are stories of this darkness and one who leads the people against it."

"I suppose over a thousand years of migration would ensure these stories continue and change to suit each locale," suggested Connington, a bit snippily. He had his arms crossed. "They could all originate from the same location."

"Perhaps," the priest shrugged, "But who's to say that they didn't all come from truth?"

The man scoffed, both Jon and Arya frowned, both aware of the intricacies of magic and the potential of the prophecy being true – to whatever degree.

"The important part of the Prince's story that you might be more interested in, Westerosi," said the priest, turning back to Jon and lingering on him, "Is that Azor Ahai is to be reborn again as a champion sent by R'hllor, our Lord of Light."

"Reborn." Jon echoed the word flatly. "Meaning that there has been more than one Azor Ahai over the years."

"Is that so hard to believe?" asked the priest, curiously. "The Prince Who Was Promised is meant to appear after a long summer when an evil, cold darkness descends upon the world. He will wield Lightbringer once again, Azor Ahai will stand against the darkness and if he fails, the world fails with him."

"I'm more disturbed by the idea that the Long Night has happened multiple times," muttered Arya darkly. "We didn't survive the last."

The priest stared at her.

"The problem with this is that we only know of the Long Night happening during the Age of Heroes," replied Jon, frowning. "Because the Children of the Forest created the Others."

"...unless there is something else out there worse than the Others that our ancestors fought in the darkness," finished Arya, her tone tight with worry. "I'd rather hope both events were one and the same in this story."

They shared an uneasy look while Connington stared at them, disbelief etched onto his face.

Jon turned back to the priest. "Did any Targaryens ever visit the temple? Particularly since the Doom?"

The priest sniffed haughtily. "The people of Volantis may have dragonblood in their veins from their ancestors, but she takes care of her own. We are a free city, young man; we are not beholden to the ruinous actions of the Valyrian freehold nor touched by the decay that spread through the remaining Targaryen line in Westeros."

Arya's lips twisted into a smirk when she muttered to the two men, "In other words, they're not touched by Targaryen madness."

"Ha!" barked the priest, rolling his red eyes in the most animated expression yet. "We've had people in the city on behalf of the Targaryens. We've had some Targaryens in the past – but none

step foot in our temple. Snobbish, self-centred people; thinking they're better than others of Valyrian descent."

He began to grumble under his breath.

Jon plastered a smile on his face, stretched brittle thin, and said, "Well, thank you for your time—"

"Oh." The man stopped, peering at Jon. "You're leaving already? But you haven't looked into the fire."

"Not really interested in that," said Jon carefully, backing away with Connington and Arya copying him. "I've more of a – uh, scholarly interest in Azor Ahai and R'hllor, and you've answered my questions. Thank you."

The priest hummed thoughtfully, and stared, his red eyes penetrating as the three practically turned and fled. The man's gaze remained stuck on Jon's back even after they passed through the ambulatory, back onto the base and down the hundreds of steps, until they were amongst the tall buildings and dark allies that made up Volantis.

Jon shuddered. "The sooner we leave this city, the better."

Arya rolled her eyes, making a slow amble toward the inn. "You're the one obsessed with learning about the prophecy to see if Rhaegar was right about it or not."

"It's not about whether he was right or not, Arya," protested Jon quietly, even as Connington watched, head swivelling back and forth, "It's more that we were fighting creatures of magic. We were living in times of magic: direwolves, dragons, the Children of the Forest—"

"What, really?" gapped Connington.

"—and White Walkers," continued Jon without interruption. "With a prophecy, it all seems too neat. Like it was all meant to happen. And to hear that the hero would be reborn – like... like a wheel..."

"Daenerys did mention breaking the wheel," mused aloud Arya, eyes contemplative. "Although I don't think that was what she meant."

Jon huffed a tiny laugh, ducking his head.

They walked the rest of the way back to the inn in silence, walking into their set of rooms. Robb was slightly cowed, pressed against the end of his chair's arm, leaning away from Sansa; Rickon and Loras were lounging on the bed, shoulders pressed together and speaking quietly to each other, and Bran was nearest the window, his eyes white as he skinchanged for some reason or another.

The three stopped in surprise when Sansa greeted them with slightly maniacal eyes.

"Oh, good, you're back!" she held up an inkpot and a thin sheaf of parchment. "I've got an idea!"

Elsewhere, in a room of cold white marble and vaulted ceilings, a young teenager lounged on her bed of vibrant red silks, lazily eating some grapes off a golden plate left behind for her by a servant. The lattice blinds had been thrown open, letting the brief evening breeze waft through and for her to see the growing twilight, the tiny stars splattered across the evening sky.

Her older brother, fiddling with a curved blade their grandfather had given him on his recent

twentieth nameday, lounged in a heavy square chair near the girl's bed, bare feet kicked up and resting on a matching silver footrest, a sour expression on his face.

"—believe amma and baba won't let me attend cousin Niya's wedding next week," he complained, tipping his head back and resting it along the back of the chair. He scowled and slouched further down.

The girl on the bed shot him a look. "I believe it, 'Ro. You nearly killed her betrothed the last time you were in the same room as him."

The scowl deepened and the man exhaled noisily. "He insulted grandfather—"

"Many people insult grandfather and yet he does not have bravos fighting for his honour," pointed out the girl. "Niya's intended is one of the Elephants, Maerros. You can't go around challenging them, not with elections so soon—"

"I know, Tali," groused Maerros. When she didn't do anything but continue to stare at him, he stressed, "I know!"

She shrugged and turned back to the grapes.

There was a brief silence except for the tinny noise of the flat of Maerros' sword hitting the chair's hard edge. "I overheard amma and baba speaking of you."

"Me?" Talisa turned from her stomach to her side to stare incredulously at her brother. "Whatever for?"

"There's some Westerosi foreigners asking about you," he answered. "Westerosi?"

Maerros smirked. "Yes, little sister, Westerosi."

"But I don't know any—"

"Nor do I, or amma, or baba," interrupted Maerros. "Or any of the other Tigers. We don't exactly rub elbows with the new money, do we?"

"What do they want?" asked Talisa, sitting up.

"Not sure," shrugged Maerros. "I think they wanted to speak to you. An audience – which we all

know will never happen. Grandfather won't let it." "How curious," murmured Talisa.

"Put it out of your mind," instructed Maerros sharply, eyeing her. "And certainly, don't think of wandering from the inner city, either Tali—"

"I wouldn't," she protested, but they both knew it was a token protest, as she and Maerros, and their younger brother Banquo had all escaped their grandfather's tiger cloaks to explore outside the Black Walls. Maerros opened his mouth to further protest when a deep caw interrupted them, causing both siblings to turn and stare at the pretty parrot resting on the back of the matching chair to the one Maerros sat in.

"How did—" He put his blade down and stood from the seat, moving toward the parrot. "Shoo!"

The parrot cawed again, flapping its impressive and brightly coloured wings, trying to gain purchase on the chair.

"'Ro, wait, look at its talon!" exclaimed Talisa, sliding off the floor futon and moving toward them. The parrot calmed and eyed her with a single, beady eye. "There's parchment tied to it!"

Maerros stared.

Talisa was the one to carefully extend her hand toward the parrot, ignoring Maerros' complaints, and gently untied the parchment. Once freed, the parrot flapped its wings and Talisa quickly retreated, the rolled parchment clutched to her chest.

"Well, what's it say?" demanded Maerros, eyeing the bird but scuttling to her side.

Talisa unrolled the letter and peered at it. "I... it's Common Tongue. Oh, and Valyrian underneath. I can read that."

"Well?"

Talisa read it, stared, and then handed it to Maerros who also read it and stared.

To Talisa of House Maegyr – greetings! We hope this letter finds you, and your family, well. Our brother, Robb of House Stark, formally requests a meeting with Talisa of House Maegyr, or anyone else of her house on her behalf. We ask for nothing but a few hours of your time. If you – or anyone else – is amendable, please send a reply with this parrot, or visit us at the Merchant's House. We await your reply. Yours –

"What is this?" muttered Maerros, baffled. "These must be the Westerosi. How did they get a parrot to deliver this letter?"

He turned to stare at the bird, which ruffled its feathers in response, eyeing him back with an all- too-human expression. He shuddered.

"They're clearly desperate to meet," said Talisa slowly, "Perhaps I should meet with—"

"No!" shouted Maerros. "You know nothing of these people. Let's ignore this matter entirely. Sooner or later, they will leave Volantis and we will be free of them."

Talisa eyed Maerros dubiously.

"Little sister, trust me," he said, turning and tossing the letter onto a dresser carelessly, returning to his seat, fully ignoring the disgruntled bird. "They will lose interest soon enough. Now – with amma and baba gone for Niya's wedding celebrations, what do you say about a trip of our own next week?"

TBC...