Chapter Text
Yunkai, Essos, year 300 After Conquest
BERON
Of Yunkai, the yellow city, little needs be said, for it is a most disreputable place.
The men who rule it, calling themselves the Wise Masters, are steeped in corruption, selling bed slaves and boy-whores and worse...
What to think of a place whose main trait was to make and sell bed slaves. Queen of the cities, that was how Yunkai was called.
So was Qarth. He saw them both in his life and only if he were to lose his wit would he grant Yunkai the right to call itself queen of anything.
City was made of yellow bricks. Its walls were crumbling, there were towers and as in every city that Ghiscari have built centuries ago pyramids,
tall and stepped stood. Yunkai was famous of the golden pyramid of Qaggaz.
Above the main city gate, stood the creature he was always disgusted with. It had head and breasts and belly of a woman,
but instead of arms there were wings of a bat, also there were no woman's legs but those of an eagle. Creature also had tail of a scorpion.
To make sure all who enter Yunkai to know whom this city belonged to, this creature, harpy of Old Ghis had a whip and a slave iron collar in its talons.
The walls and towers of Yunkai today were swarmed with crossbowmen and slingers.
Slave soldiers, mostly. Soldiers of a city that trained girls and boys to please men and women in bed, not to defeat hosts in the field.
They made loud noise, still. Shouts, battle cries that were more like screams, curses in Yunkish Low Valyrian. It all pierced his ears.
Behind him was a camp of the army which came to take Yunkai. Two camps, to be honest. One, with orderly rows, with tall pavilion at the center.
Second camp was much larger than the first, five times even. It was a mess, a nightmare of any military commander.
There were no tents, no horselines, no guards. It was not a camp of an army, but place where scores of women, children, old men rested, same as their livestock. Mules, goats, sheep.
It sickened him to see that. That is not how one prepares for battle, by allowing thousands of newly freed slaves to follow you as beaten dogs.
He wondered if anyone stayed in Astapor now that slavers were butchered, Unsullied taken away and other slaves went after their liberator.
Most of curses which came from the walls were of that liberator. It began to bore him. Not that he cared much of what took place in Astapor.
In truth, he could not care less.
"Is my bow ready?" he asked the younger man standing next to him.
"Aye." was the answer.
"Then kindly give it to me." he said.
"Walls are too far... it is an impossible shot."
"You think so?" he smirked "I was making impossible shots while you were... Well in truth you weren't then."
Younger man warned: "Should you miss, those on the wall will mock you."
"Should I miss, I'll mock myself. The bow, if it pleases you..."
It was a longbow. Yet not any longbow.
Most of men before the gates of Yunkai used double-curved horn-and-sinew bows of the east. Good weapon, yet not the best.
Better than these were the yew longbows borne by the archers of Westeros and best of all were the great bows of goldenheart tree from Summer Islands. Only a dragonbone bow could outrange one made of goldenheart. And he had a longbow made of dragonbone.
A far as he knew the only one ever made in the whole world.
Bow was black as dragonbone was black for it had lot of iron in itself. As any other metal it was strong, yet lighter and more yielding.
He had to kill few men to keep hold of this bow. And he was ready to kill many more.
As he nocked and draw, in the corner of his eye he could see how from afar two Westerosi men, knights are watching him.
They stood some four hundred yards away. And a young woman was standing between them.
There was a captain on the walls, one that has already shown his manhood couple of times, calling the young woman with obscene names.
Man released the arrow, then turned away, giving the bow to his younger companion to unstrung it, wrap it in cloth and put it away.
He didn't even bother to see if his aim was good, sound of a body falling from the walls and shouts and curses told him that.
One of two knights gave him a long gaze, same as he did to him.
"Come, we shall go to our tent now." he said to the younger man.
"They're speaking of you."
"Let them speak." he shrugged.
"Are we not insulting them by leaving so?" "We do."
"Is that wise?" younger man asked. "Wise? No, it is not. But I have ceased caring of wise and wisdom many years ago."
His name was Beron Stark. His father was Eyron, son of Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf, who sired him with daughter of a Pentoshi merchant.
She died when Eyron was a boy of only three namedays and her father and mother agreed with Rodrick for boy to stay in Pentos until he is man grown. Eyron stayed for rest of his life, not having interest to join his father in Westeros, while Rodrik married Arya Flint of the mountain clans
and had two daughters, Branda and Lyarra Stark.
Rodrik's daughter Lyarra was wed with his great-nephew, Rickard who was grandson of Rodrik's brother Willam Stark, Lord of Winterfell.
Rickard sired with Lyarra, his first cousin once removed, four children: sons Brandon, Eddard and Benjen and one daughter named Lyanna.
Beron was born in Pentos in the same year when his kinsman Brandon was born in Winterfell.
Eyron wed Melissa Ennel, daughter of Pentoshi magister of Andal blood.
After Eyra and Wenela, a son was born to a Pentoshi offspring of Wandering Wolf.
He was named after his grandsire, Beron. Unlike his father, Beron wished to see the world, same as his grandfather from Winterfell.
When he was seven and ten years old, ship took him across the Narrow Sea to White Harbor from where he rode to the holdfast of House Stark.
Beron was well received there by his kinfolk, lady Lyarra Stark was his aunt while lord Rickard and him were second cousins.
It was known that Rodrik had a son in Pentos and as he was fifth son of lord of Winterfell Beron Stark, these Pentoshi Starks had almost no claim
to Winterfell. That made family relations even more cordial, though Beron assured Rickard and Lyarra of Eyron having no interest in Westeros whatsoever. This branch of Stark family was wholly of Essos, save their name which will last only until there are male descendants.
"Pentos is our home and our land. My father has sent you a letter and asked me to pay respect to his father in the crypts of Winterfell.
He never crossed the Narrow Sea in his life nor he ever will." Beron said at the supper with Rickard, Lyarra and their children.
"And you, young Beron? Do you find the North to your liking?" lord of Winterfell asked.
"My lord..." he replied in Common Tongue with accent that was equally odd as one his hosts spoke with
"...I wish not to offend you, but Pentos is as south as King's Landing is, only across the sea.
I am a man of south and I have no shame admitting it. I plan to try my luck in King's Landing."
Brandon Stark smirked at him and was about to say something belittling to his guest, but lord Rickard spoke first:
"A man honest can never offend me, cousin Beron. I don't see you thriving in the North as well.
What do you intend to do in the capital of Seven Kingdoms?"
"My lord, I've been holding bravo's sword since I was three and ten. And spear. And bow, most of all. I planned to join the City Watch."
"Gold cloaks? Why would you do that?" Brandon nearly laughed.
"I am, despite the name my grandfather left me, a foreigner. I can't hope for getting rich swift.
And, just as Wandering Wolf served in a sellsword company, I see fit for me to serve in the City Watch."
Rickard paused for a moment, then nodded: "Indeed it is. And with your name and should your skills be as you claim they are,
I see you rising in the ranks of gold cloaks swiftly. I shall even write a letter to certain member of Small Council to recommend you.
But first, we should all see your skills with weapons, cousin. For that, you will remain guest of Winterfell for a moon or two."
Beron remained for nearly four moons before he rode south, down the kingsroad.
Brandon, heir to lord Rickard, misliked him at first, but as Beron has proven to be his match in swordfight and far better in archery,
Wild Wolf warmed up to him and two kinsmen became friends during Beron's stay in Winterfell. Eddard was polite to him, but Pentoshi Stark
find Ned to be a bit boring, unlike his other cousin, Lyanna. Then a girl of three and ten namedays, only daughter of lord of Winterfell saw Beron
as welcome novelty in rather uneventful life in Stark castle. First time they went riding, she amazed him how skilled rider she was.
"Are you a Stark or a damn Dothraki?" he said as they were resting their horses on a ridge.
She laughed aloud before asking: "Do Dothraki women carry swords?" "No, only men."
"Then I care not of listening about them." she dismissed further talk of the Essosi horselords.
"You want to carry a sword?" Beron asked. "I do. But my lord father will never allow it."
"It is not usual for women to carry swords, here or in Essos. Well, there are tales of warrior maids of Samyriana and Kayakayanaya..."
"Kayakaya... what?" she chuckled. "Kayakayanaya. Tales say it's a city in far corner of Essos, thousands of miles from Pentos."
"And they have women warriors there as well?" "Only women are warriors there." Beron said. "And men? Do they not fight?"
"No, Lyanna, stories say that from hundred boys, only one is not gelded." "Gods! So many eunuchs! What do they do?"
"All other work than warring, I suppose. Yet, not all tales from far east of Essos are to be trusted lightly, cousin."
"Tell me more. I want to know of that queer continent you've come from."
"There is nothing queer in Pentos, Lyanna."
As they slowly rode back to the castle, he told her more strange tales of eastern lands and she enjoyed them all.
Beron also grew to like the youngest of his aunt's children, Benjen.
He was eleven years old then, a sweet child if Beron were a good judge of that.
Youngest of Stark siblings was secretly sparing in swordplay with his sister and oft he was losing which angered him every time.
Much to Lyanna's amusement, Beron began to train Benjen in the ways of bravo's swordsmanship, but it clashed with what Winterfell master at arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel was teaching the poor boy. After a few sennights of learning how to wield a blade in manner of Westeros and manner of Free Cities, Benjen ended up doing both wrong. He was even more angry, while his sister was even more amused. Those were good days for Beron. And a treasured memory of his youth.
On the day of his departure from Winterfell, he bid farewell to all his young cousins and aunt Lyarra.
Lord Rickard accompanied him on his horse for nearly half a mile down the kingsroad. He gave him a letter to one member of the Small Council.
"I wish you good fortune, cousin. You may be a young man, but I see qualities of a good leader in you.
And those shits in City Watch will see them as well. It will not be a surprise to me if you were to become a commander in a year or two.
To have a Stark in place of influence in King's Landing is always a good thing."
Lord Rickard was right when he said that, twenty-three years ago. It was always wise and with good reason for great houses of Westeros
to have one of their own in the capital, the nearer to the throne the better. Having a commander in the City Watch, had its uses and Rickard Stark, unlike those who ruled the North before him, had ambitions in the south. Wisdom and good reasoning do seldom fail in times of sanity.
And always fail in times of madness. Those were the times Beron Stark of Pentos rode towards in year 277. After Conquest.
Beron was sitting down on a small wooden stool, before his double bell wedge tent, enjoying the shade that grey canvas provided.
Next to his was another tent of similar making, though this one was smaller and belonged to the young man who took care of his bow.
He was of same age now as Beron was when he served in City Watch of King's Landing, two decades ago.
Three hundred years exactly have passed since Aegon Targaryen conquered Westeros or most of it and made Seven Kingdoms.
And forty years since Beron Stark was born in Pentos, to Eyron and Melissa. He was still a comely man, with dark-brown hair and long face which spoke loudly of his Stark ancestry, though his eyes were not grey but brown, same as his Pentoshi grandmother's eyes were.
His clothes were of same colors, brown linen sleeveless surcoat over grey tunic and black trousers, light attire, fit for weather of Slaver's Bay.
Beron was chewing an apple when he saw a man approaching. It was one of the knights that watched him take down a Yunkish officer with
an arrow. That knight was an older man, passed his sixtieth nameday, of white hair and trimmed beard of same color.
His clothes seemed a bit shabby, he donned dark-grey shirt and breeches and dark leather surcoat over it. An image of exiled, poor knight.
He was a tall man and moved gracefully, despite his age. In his youth, women have found him handsome and that had not changed with time.
Nor have man's blue eyes. Beron knew him well.
Elderly knight halted his pace as he came before the tent and gave Beron a long, silent gaze.
"Those who see ghosts tend to look that way." he said to his unexpected guest.
"No, I see the boy I knew, in the man before me... lord Beron Stark."
"And I see even older knight than one I knew, Ser Barristan Selmy."
"Beron Stark... I knew it. Only three men could have made that shot with the bow. And two of them are long dead. So, it had to be you."
"And it was me. So, you were right." Beron said dryly "Though I doubt that was the reason you came all this way, from your part of the camp."
"No, it was not. I did not even expect for your sellswords to be in Slaver's Bay. Are not Free Cities and lands between them place where you earn your pay?"
"I earn my pay in many ways, Ser."
"Yes. I have heard stories of a rich trader from Pentos who has company of three hundred mounted men in Disputed Lands, and joins them in campaigns for his own amusement, not that he needs it."
Beron narrowed his eyes: "Oh, I need it, Ser. I need it greatly."
"And now you are here, besieging Yunkai." Barristan said which made Beron to chuckle:
"Besieging? Far from it. In truth, it were Wise Masters who invited me to fight for them and it did not take too long to sail from Volantis to here.
But your army, I'll be generous enough to call it an army, came here first making my arrangement with Yunkish a bit harder to come to pass."
Barristan shook his head: "What happened to you, Beron Stark?"
"It was not as easy for me as it was for you to forget...You know what I speak of, don't you?"
Old knight sighed: "He was your friend."
"And they were my family!" Beron replied loudly "You were there. I saw you. You hit Brandon across his face that night, when he came before
Red Keep, seeking his sister and justice. Tell me, old man, how great was the honor you felt when Mad King had my cousin Rickard roasted
in his armor and his firstborn strangled as he tried to reach the sword to free his father? You served that madman, you bled for him at Trident."
"I have bled with Prince Rhaegar. For Prince Rhaegar. Not for Aerys..."
"For Rhaegar? Ha... yes, he was my friend. A good friend. What he did..."
"He loved lady Lyanna, that I am sure of. And he would never rape..." "I know he would not, Ser Barristan. And I know what she felt for him.
I wish I did not, but I do know. And that is the saddest part of it... Be sure of this , Ser Barristan, Beron Stark you once knew died.
He died with Rickard and Brandon, he died with Rhaegar on Trident, he died with Lyanna in Dorne. He died with little Rhaenys and Aegon,
and with Elia who suffered the most. So, kindly do not ask again what happened to that young man you once knew, Ser."
Old knight remained silent for a while, then he made a nod.
Beron nodded back, then said: "You did not come here to dwell on past, right?"
"No. Her Grace wishes to meet the man who silenced the walls of Yunkai. After you struck that captain down, no more insults came.
Queen wishes to thank you in person." Beron shrugged: "I did not do it for her. Noise they were making began to hurt my ears."
"Still, you're expected to answer Her Grace's call." Barristan said with stern voice. Beron crossed his hands: "Tell me... is she worth it?
Crossing the Narrow Sea at your age... fighting again when you could be enjoying your... but, Kingsguard does not retire, do they?
It's a service for life. And yet you're here and not in Harvest Hall, relishing in your old age, teaching young shits how to hold a blade..."
"As you've said, Beron Stark, Kingsguard is service for life. And now I serve in Queensguard of Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her name."
"So, you have served a madman, a drunk, shortly even a boy who according to some is fruit of brother-sister fuckery.
I've heard of him dismissing you. Such news travel across the Narrow Sea. An insult, but what can one expect from Lannisters.
And now... you serve Mad King's daughter. Hardly an improvement." Barristan placed hand on the hilt of his sword:
"I prefer to think I serve Rhaegar's sister." Beron sighed before saying in solemn tone: "If only that were true. He would have made a great king.
I hold that belief, even after all these years. Alas, as you've said... he loved my cousin Lyanna and thousands died for it."
"You should give his sister a chance, then." Barristan said.
"Give chance to whom?" asked the voice from smaller tent and a dark-haired young man came out, wearing only white shirt,
one that needed washing many days ago, and dark trousers. Barristan turned towards this young man and gave him a frowning gaze.
He was no more than eight and ten, of long face and grey eyes, graceful and lean. All the Stark traits, but also some that weren't.
Young man was as frozen in the spot when he saw Barristan's assessing look.
Beron smirked: "Again, Ser, you seem as you've seen a ghost. Which is odd, as this boy here indeed owns a large dog named exactly so." "It's not a dog, but a direwolf." came the rebuttal.
"Where are your manners, present yourself to Ser Barristan Selmy."
Young man's eyes glowed when he heard that name. Then he said: "My name is Jon Snow, Ser."
Old knight turned to Beron again: "Snow?"
"What? You thought he was mine? No, you knew his father well. Jon's father is my cousin... was my cousin. Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell."
Barristan's features changed right that moment: "I am sorry for what they did to your father. He was an honorable man.And he feared not dying before dishonoring himself."
Jon nodded: "I thank you for your words, Ser." Then he looked at Beron.
"Jon, Ser Barristan brought us the invitation of his queen. She wants to see me."
"You should accept that honor, cousin."
"Should I? Well... an old man told me I should... a young man told me I should. I guess then that I should."
"Very well." knight of Queensguard said "You are expected in Her Grace's pavilion at sunset. Do not be tardy, she will not look upon it well."
Beron smirked again, but Selmy did not see that as his back was already turned and he walked away.
Beron summoned his young cousin to his tent as there was less than half an hour till sundown.
Jon was pacing around impatiently and Beron knew that he was curious to meet this girl queen which some of her followers called Khaleesi.
"Have you washed yourself?" he asked?
"I did." Jon answered.
"Trimmed your... well, let's call it a beard."
"Yes." came second reply, this one more irked.
"Good. And I see you've donned clean tunic and breeches and your best belt. Still that will not do. Here, take this."
He threw a folded piece of clothing at Jon who slowly unfold it.
A gray linen overcoat with Stark direwolf embroidered on the left chest. Same as Beron was about to put on.
"I can't wear this."
"Why? Is it the wrong size?"
"No, but..."
"But what?"
"I am not a Stark." Jon said, his voice more dry than usual.
"You have more Stark blood than I do. And since I am the only trueborn Stark from here to Pentos, I tell you to wear this overcoat. Or I will go and meet this Targaryen girl alone."
"Were you truly friend with Prince Rhaegar?"
"So... you've overheard me and Selmy..."
"It was hard not to..."
"Yes. I was his friend. As one could be friend of such a man."
"He kidnapped and raped my aunt. And you say he loved her."
"Have you ever heard that from your father? Of Rhaegar kidnapping and raping Lyanna?" Jon shook his head.
"Stories differ depending on the mouth from which they come from." Beron told him.
"When will I hear your story of Robert's Rebellion?" Jon's voice rang with curiosity of youth.
"Never."