Epilogue-A Gruesome Warning

To explain the Cursed Crossing, we must first look at its history.

The Tale of House Frey and the Weasel Lord is well-known across the world. The Freys have a short history, marked by a rapid rise to power and excessive ambition that led to tragedy.

The Twins, also known as the Crossing, were once a formidable fortress because of their unique position, and taking them by force would require a siege and assault from both sides of the Green Fork.

While relatively young, House Frey had begun to grow arrogant and wealthy from the tolls levied. The Freys peaked under Lord Walder Frey, whose tolls were only slightly less than extortion, and more than once, he was slow to answer his liege’s call to war until a victor was decided. It was all the same, whether during the Third, Fourth, or Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion, Robert’s Rebellion, Greyjoy’s Rebellion, or the War of the Five Kings. Walder Frey had earned the title of ‘Late Lord Frey’ more than thrice over.

But after the rise came the fall. It all began with the Red Wedding.

There are many speculations about the motives behind the Red Wedding. Some say the Young Wolf spurning his promise to the grasping Lord Frey was a grave slight. But the insult was redressed with the marriage of Edmure Tully and Roslin Frey, yet Lord Frey turned his cloak and slaughtered his sworn liege under guest right. Others claim that it was the Young Wolf who attacked first, turning into a feral beast and tearing into Walder Frey’s sons, but such fantastical tales are clear nonsense. After the foul deed, House Frey and Bolton were rewarded by Tywin Lannister with far too many honours, like titles and marriages, for the numerous members of the Crossing.

The vilest breach of Guest Right in recent history had not gone unnoticed. Since that day when the Young Wolf and his leal bannermen were so diabolically betrayed in the halls of the Crossing, the Frey name was synonymous with a curse from the Wall to the Arbour. Not even the greediest merchants trusted House Frey since that day, and their allies grew thin and hesitant; their words, oaths, and requests fell on deaf ears.

For a brief moment, it looked like the Freys would enjoy the victory and honours awarded them for the betrayal of House Stark, who were all considered extinct.

Yet the Wolves of Winterfell were not gone, and the ancient lineage of the Winter Kings endured, and the treachery did not go unpunished. Arya Stark herself poisoned every soul inside the Twins, offering House Frey and their servants in tribute to the death of her brother and mother in what is now infamously known as the Stranger’s Feast. With all the direct perpetrators of the Red Wedding dead, the Demon of Winterfell considered the Crossing and the remaining Freys beneath his notice, no different than vermin. But even the silent displeasure of the Dragon of the North was more than enough to strangle any attempts of House Frey to recover.

The Freys’ woes did not end at Winterfell, nor did their foes. The wolves were far from the only ones to lose kin and kith at the Red Wedding. By the end of 303 AC, House Frey, infamous for its army of sons and cousins, was extinguished.

The oathbreakers were gone for good, and countless souls rejoiced, but their castle remained.

Lord Patrek Mallister managed to gobble up a sizeable chunk of the Frey lands on the western bank of the Green Fork, claiming them for his own and the rest was split between the neighbouring Houses. Yet, the Crossing was still a pivotal point, sitting in an important section on the Green Fork, so soon enough, House Nayland was given control of the keep.

Their reign was short-lived. Within six moons, all the members of the House were taken by the winter chill. Brigands, outlaws and robber knights attempted to hold the Crossing during the fierce winter with little success. At most, they could hold one of the towers amidst their squabbles, never both and never for long. Spring came, the remaining outlaws melted away like snow under the sun under the threat of House Mallister, and the Crossing was given to a cadet branch of House Perryn.

Garlan Perryn slipped on the stairs and broke his neck before he could enjoy his newfound lordship, and his two sons drowned in the Green Fork shortly after. Seven Houses struggled to hold the Crossing for the next two years, all meeting a tragic end.

Spring proved no better, and by 310 AC, not a single House had managed to hold the Twins for more than half a year. It was said that the Seven themselves were wroth with the sacrilege that was the Red Wedding and cursed the souls of the treacherous Freys to haunt their own halls for eternity—

Excerpt from ‘Cursed Places of the Known World’ by Maester Laryn

Magister Arvaad Marinar, Tyrosh, 309 AC

Arvaad Marinar was tired, and the luxuries inside the Archon’s palace did nothing to lift his spirits. Running a war and a city at the same time from the shadows turned out far harder than he ever expected, even with his brother’s help. A pity he still needed to corral all those magisters. He hated the Magister’s Conclave for a reason, but Arvaad was forced to deal with it, as it was the city’s backbone and true source of power. Thankfully, only the wealthiest twelve and the Archon could attend.

None of the merchant princes lacked influence or coin, so as much as he wanted to do away with them, he couldn’t. Not swiftly. The moment he started anything too bold, like trying to control them directly or seize their wealth and assets, they would all stop squabbling and band together against him.

Arvaad was content to move slowly, moving only when opportunity presented itself. An inn was taken here, and a dock’s rights were purchased there. Soft measures, as he avoided something as final as the assassination of brothers and sons, would give rise to quick animosity.

“This is unacceptable!” Magister Zephron Sarrios slammed his hand on the table. “We can’t continue to dawdle like this. Myr has already taken more ground and now has control over two-thirds of the Disputed Lands.”

The son of his old and unlamented foe, Zaphon Sarrios, was a plump, unremarkable whelp—short of height, soft of belly, and, unlike his sire, bereft of cunning or steel. Where Zaphon had wielded ambition for more gold and influence, his heir sought only approval, pleasures of the flesh, the praise of peers, and the fleeting glories of pageantry. He acted like a pigherder in silk, and had the mind of one.

Arvaad did not mind. The gods had smiled upon him with this boy. Through sweet words and subtle whispers, he had coaxed the young fool into pouring coin, men, and favours into the maw of war, all in pursuit of imagined greatness. Bit by bit, the wealth of House Sarrios drained like wine from a cracked cask, their power dulled with every gildan spent. The game had become almost too easy.

When the elder Zaphon had died—choking, they said, on his own swollen gut—Arvaad had not wasted the day in mourning. He had danced barefoot beneath the sun, drunk with mirth and brandy both, and sang bawdy songs until the dusk came. Each of his slaves was granted an extra cut of meat that day.

Yet, the young magister’s words were the beginning of a storm.

“Lys failed to pull in as many sellswords as Myr,” murmured Graphen, a gaunt and greying old magister who owned most of the goldsmiths in the city. “With the fighting around the Demon Road and Braavos drawing most of them, there are not many companies left to employ.”

Green eyes flashed with interest behind the golden mask of the Archon.

He remained silent. Not that there was any need to speak yet, the other magisters were eager to start bleating like old mules. Most of them were all old and stubborn, much like mules.

“We cannot allow Myr to claim the entirety of the Disputed Lands!”

“Well, what do you suggest we do? Abandon our attack on Braavos and let them recover and dominate the Narrow Sea again?!”

Arvad merely started sipping on his favourite pear brandy, listening with half an ear as he let the squabbling voices wash over him. For all their bluster and posturing, the magisters rarely agreed on anything, and today would be no different.

“Our war effort against the Bastard Daughter has run the city’s coffers dry—”

“And it will pay back tenfold once we manage to sack the city and loot the Iron Bank—”

“Less so if the bearded priests of Norvos join us…”

“That’s assuming we even manage to reach Braavos! We’re gaining less and less ground each day, and at this rate, our armies will reach the city in a decade!”

“The treasury can scarcely afford two years of war, let alone ten—”

“But if we stop now, all the coin wasted will be for nought—”

“What if Lorath and Ibb truly decide to aid Braavos?”

“Sellswords are not enough. We should begin training our own army—”

“Are you mad!? Do you know how costly it is to maintain a well-trained and well-armed force in perpetuity? The training also demands a small fortune!”

“We can always have a part of them take mercenary contracts to cover part of the cost—”

“What if they are defeated? All the time and coin would be for nought!”

“Port fees can be raised—”

“Preposterous! Do you want to lose half of our dwindling trade to Myr and Lys?!”

“You forget the most important part. What if our army rebels? We’ll be at the mercy of those brutish meatheads! There’s no way to ensure their loyalty.”

“Ah, the gods have come to test our resolve in these trying times. If only the dragon whore hadn’t ruined Astapor and its training facilities…”

“If Myr gains hold over the entirety of the Disputed Lands, it will become too powerful! We should stop this folly with Braavos and crush the Myrish before they consolidate their gains!”

“We’ve already offended the Braavosi. If we pull out our forces from the conflict, we’ll give them a chance to recover and strike back while we fight against Myr!”

“How about we send envoys to one of the bigger Khals? Ten thousand horsemen can be just the right push that we need—”

“What’s stopping Braavos from doing the same?!”

“And just how will you convince the Dothraki to aid us anyway? All of them are too busy killing each other or fending off the Ghiscari incursions! Six years, and over twenty fictories—that Kazdil mo Hardan is unstoppable!”

Arvaad’s head began throbbing from all the squabbling, and he gave a faint sign to the man wearing a golden mask and holding an ornate Valyrian steel sceptre in his right hand.

“Silence!” The Archon slammed the butt of his sceptre on the goldenheart table, and the commotion quickly died off. “Tyrosh’s course shall not change for now. Once the envoy from Norvos returns, we shall reconvene again.”

The magisters dispersed quickly, the golden-masked man disappeared into the back rooms, and Arvaad slipped into one of the empty hallways. Empty save for the Unsullied guarding the entrance—but he worried not; those were all his men, despite wearing the Archon’s livery.

Soon enough, his half-brother, Breynan, joined him. He looked somewhat average, with olive skin, green eyes, a plain face, and an unassuming build; his only distinctive feature was the blue satin robe. In fact, he looked so ordinary in Tyrosh that you could find a dozen men with his looks on almost every street in the city.

“Couldn’t you have picked someone else for this game?”

“It’s not a game, Breynan.” Arvaad sighed. “You get to enjoy the luxuries of being Archon.”

He was not even the elected Archon; Arvaad had the middling magister drunken the night of the vote and ‘helped’ him fall into a fountain, drowning tragically. However, that was only prudent because his brother was one of the popular choices, and the results were not announced until the morning after.

Bribing off the three priests who had tallied the votes to keep the real result quiet was simple. Disposing of them was simpler still, since Arvaad had done it after enough time in ways that would not raise suspicion. It had all paid off manyfold.

“The taste of luxuries is sweet,” Breynon grumbled, “almost as sweet as poppy wine—if I live long enough to enjoy it. Fat lot of good it does me when a Faceless Man might slit my throat in the dark. I’m no fool, brother.”

“That’s why we keep you behind a golden mask and send doubles to die in your stead,” his Arvad replied coolly. “You’ve not attended even half the meetings.”

“Yes, and it’s the doubles who drink the finest wines, feast on sugared dates, and rut like dogs while I rot behind a veil and listen to magisters squabble.”

“And they die in your stead, too,” the magister said. “All of them die sooner or later. Better them than you.”

“Seven dead doubles, brother.” Breynon’s eyes were dark with worry. “I can’t do this much longer. What if they strike at me instead of the decoy next time?”

“It shan’t be long now.” Arvaad stroked his oiled beard with slow satisfaction. “Three magisters are already in my pocket—”

“You’ve found filth on them, you mean.”

Arvaad smiled. “What’s the difference, so long as they vote the way I wish?”

Breynon let out a long sigh. He looked older than his years, drawn and pale. “Even with three, you lack the votes to rule unopposed.”

“I have no need of all their votes,” Arvaad replied softly. “I have almost every forge and smithy in the city tied to one of my names. Zaphron has lost the dyemasters to me as well. The wealth of House Sarrios bleeds into my coffers day by day. The fools waste their coin on ships and sellswords, chasing glory in Braavos. I hoard mine and buy the city piece by piece.”

“And when you have it?”

“Then you step down. We prop up another bloated fool as Archon—let him bear the blame for the war. Meanwhile, I will rule from the shadows.”

“What if he decides to abandon the war with Braavos and tries to clean house?”

“Then he’d be forced to ally with Lys against Myr, lest the latter manages to consolidate its grasp on the Disputed Lands,” he explained lazily. “Or be forced to deal with that Northern Dragon or the Storm King, but neither can afford to turn our merchants away. Each problem has its own solution, no matter how thorny.”

Breynan’s shoulders sagged. “I trust you, brother, but sometimes your boldness scares me. I fear our city has provoked a few foes too many.”

And the rest of the magisters would be poorer and far more desperate, easily forced to unite behind someone capable of dealing with all the new enemies and problems. Someone like him.

“Fret not, brother mine.” Arvaad smiled as he reached out to pat his shoulder. “My plans never fail. Everything is going well.”

With the thousand Unsullied and the slave warriors he had been nurturing since young, he would be able to take complete control of Tyrosh, sweeping aside the exhausted magisters and crowning himself king. He already had most of the city watch in his pocket, but together, the remaining merchant princes had too many Unsullied, preventing him from moving openly just yet. Still, some were slowly being bought by him or sent to the front lines, reducing the threat piece by piece.

“Fine, let’s go home then. Nalya is waiting.”

Ah, his brother’s favourite daughter, an always-smiling, pretty thing from his late Lyseni goods-sister. Arvaad could admit that he favoured his niece after all his daughters had died. Nayla was kind and beautiful and reminded him of his own mother, a little bundle of joy even the heartless couldn’t bring themselves to hate.

The two descended through hidden tunnels beneath the palace that only the Archon was supposed to know. After a short walk, they emerged into a humble house, indistinguishable from a thousand others. A palanquin was waiting for them outside, a modest shell of carved wood borne by eight slaves and flanked by a dozen Unsullied. The brothers quickly rushed inside, easing onto the rose-scented cushions, and the bearers lifted them.

“It’s too hot,” Breynan murmured. “Should have taken a slave girl to fan the air for us.”

“Next time,” the magister said, wiping the sweat off his head with his sleeve.

The outside darkened, and Arvaad thanked the gods for the timely cloud.

Yet, cries and shouts echoed across the streets. The palanquin stopped, and he pulled the silken curtains in annoyance.

Men ran like cattle, women screamed, horses reared in panic. Fingers pointed skyward—

A terrible roar rocked the world. His bones rattled, his insides churned, shaking like a barrel of wine that had been dropped from a steep cliff. The world spun, and Arvaad found himself blinking up at a ceiling of golden filigree. He could not move. He could scarcely breathe. A dragon.

By the gods—was it truly a dragon?

The world swam, his stomach clenched, and all sound drained away like a tide.

Breynon’s face loomed above, mouth moving, eyes wide with panic. But Arvaad heard nothing. No voice, not even the slightest sound.

“What?” he croaked. “Speak louder, damn you!”

Breynon pointed to his own ear, stricken.

And Arvaad finally understood.

He was deaf.

The Red Jesters, Tyrosh’s foremost catspaw guild, had made a grave mistake.

Jon Stark entered the Crimson Court, the guild’s headquarters, and remained inside for nearly three hours, letting the rest of Tyrosh watch with trepidation as Winter’s tremendous form stood guard amidst the ruins of Juggler’s Square outside. A few fools dared approach the furious dragon and were roasted into ash by his dark flames. The dragonflame was so hot that it melted the cobblestones beneath into a pool of molten slag within seconds, and the nearby buildings caught fire.

Even though the city had a few scorpions along its walls, they were forgotten by the fleeing city watch that hid like rats.

Eventually, the Northern King left the Catspaw guild. None knew what happened during those three hours, but all saw the aftermath. Jon Stark outstretched his hand and slowly gathered it in a fist. At the same time, the building itself was squashed as if an invisible giant was squeezing a child’s toy.

Under hundreds of disbelieving eyes, the ruins of the Red Court were forced into the form of a giant colourful wolf-head made of wood and stone, clay and metal, blood dribbling at the seams. The dragonlord then flew away without deigning to utter a single word. As Winter flew out of the city, his enormous spiked tail whipped into the formidable outer walls, smashing through them effortlessly. Just like that, a good chunk of the fortifications was turned into rubble.

The Archon and the magisters did not have to wonder for long what had attracted the dragonlord’s ire – the news of the attempted assassination of the Northern Queen was quick to spread far and wide.

The mismatched wolf statue proved surprisingly sturdy, and any attempts to demolish or chip it away were met with failure. In the end, the magisters built a sandstone dome around it, hiding away the symbol of their humiliation.

Catspaw guilds were quickly banned from the premises of the city proper, and all activity unrelated to trade across the shores of the North was promptly outlawed on pain of death…

Excerpt from ‘The Life of Jon Stark III – Breaker and Builder’ by Grand Scholar Edwyn

Jon Stark, Pentos

As the days passed and he flew over the Narrow Sea, his fury simmered down, but it was not extinguished and instead turned into ice: cold, deadly, and razor-sharp. He had carefully considered how to deter future assassination attempts on his family, so in the end, he settled for a warning inked in horror, death, and blood. Violence was a language easily understood in every corner of the world.

Of course, retaliation was an art. Too little, and you would be considered weak, spineless and easy to push around. Too much, and fear would turn to hatred. So, Jon’s plan was simple—uncover every single soul, family, and organisation involved and squash them in the most blood-curdling yet spectacular manner. Everyone remotely involved was a fair game.

The Catspaw guild was just a tool, but that mattered little; they were now a warning to other assassins.

The perpetrator was not a single person or an organisation. There were two groups. An odd coincidence had led them to order at the same catspaw guild, possibly because of its reputation—the unlamented Jester’s Court was said to be nearly as infamous as the Sorrowful Men and the House of Black and White.

The masterminds had proven cunning enough; they had used numerous middlemen to orchestrate the clandestine deed. Good enough to throw most from their trail, but not him. He was willing to rip apart the secrets out of the minds of men and even summon their spirits from the afterlife if they thought death would deter him. One way or another, they all talked. Jon was not afraid to delve into the darkest depths of sorcery to get to the bottom of this foolish audacity. Once the vilest of magics were used, many otherwise impossible things could be achieved if you were willing to pay the price. And Jon was very willing—he’d rather have a thousand innocent die than let a single guilty one get away.

And thus, he was now slaughtering his way through the Grand Manse of Illyrio Mopatis.

Not bothering to hold back, Jon was like a direwolf in a flock of sheep, shredding his way through the defenders. Grief blurred through the hallways, cleaving another Unsullied in twain. The eunuch soldiers all wore good steel, each garbed in half-plate, wearing a shield, a short sword, and a spear. But it was for nought; they were only human, and his sword effortlessly chopped through bone, flesh, and steel.

Jon didn’t even bother using magic; it would be too quick and far less satisfying. Killing someone with your own two hands was far more personal and close, somewhat soothing, so he took his sweet time butchering through the Unsullied as he ploughed through the hallways. Truthfully, he could have found Illyrio Mopatis instantly and killed him and only him, but that would have been too easy. Everyone remotely associated with the fools who dared order his family’s death would perish as a warning.

The eunuch soldiers were like a hive of angry ants, all flocking to bar his way to try and kill him despite being so clearly outclassed. There was no fear in their gazes as they rushed him with spears in one hand and a shield in the other, trying to flank and block him in the narrower hallways. Jon could respect such impeccable teamwork, but the man commanding them seemed to be an utter lackwit. Some even used crossbows, aiming at the weak spots of his armour.

Regardless, it was all futile.

Ten minutes later, all the Unsullied were slain, and Jon headed towards the secret chamber below the manse, where he could sense his target hiding.

He kicked the steel-bound door, ripping it from the hinges and swatting away the incoming sword as if it were a fly.

Before Illyrio Mopatis could do anything more, Jon’s ironwood wand was already in his left hand.

“Imperio!” The fat magister stilled, and his eyes glazed over as pleasure coursed through Jon’s veins. “Tell me, why order a hit on my wife and child?”

It was tricky, forcing someone to give out information with magic. Veritaserum would be the most effective way, but it was unavailable to Jon in this world. His legilimency was crude and clunky at best, and with his power and lack of talent, Jon had far more chance to scramble the man’s wits before receiving any answers.

The Imperious Curse, on the other hand, was the least reliable of the three as it was the most easily resisted, yet if you had power and will in spades, you could dominate another man’s mind.

Alas, Illyrio Mopatis was superior to Jon only in girth, not mind or magic, much like Wyman Manderly, only younger and sleazier.

“Revenge for my son.” The words were monotone, but there was a tinge of anger and reluctance underneath.

“And who is your son?”

“Aegon. The same Aegon you killed.”

That certainly explained some things, even if it wasn’t Jon who had slain the Pretender. Not that he would have spared Aegon, but the chance to slay him had slipped from his grasp.

“Why now?” Jon demanded. “Nearly six years have passed since then.”

“It took me till late spring to find out what exactly happened,” the greying fat man said, voice sour. “I wanted you dead, but it was too expensive.”

“Oh, and what’s the price on my head?”

“The Faceless Men quoted a sum larger than all the gold coins in the Free Cities, and the Red Jesters wanted more gold than the whole of Pentos could fork out.”

“So you settled on cheaper targets. My wife and son.”

“Yes, I had more than enough coin then to order a hit on your wife with the Jesters, but your son was born, and I had to gather more.”

Rickon and Shireen were very well protected—he had arranged so many layers of defences, both mundane and magical, to guard them. Jon could dare to say that they were the most protected souls in the world. And after becoming a phoenix Animagus, he could flame to them in an instant if their lives were in danger. So long as they did not die in an instant, they could survive.

Yet, the attempt, the sheer gall that someone would dare to try to take his family away, was infuriating.

There was the slightest chance for the worst. What if the assassination had succeeded?

He shook his head and banished the thoughts; his wife and son were alive and well.

Jon cleaned the blood off Grief on the magister’s velvet doublet and returned it to the sheath. One final question was left. “Do you know who else hired the Red Jesters to kill my family?

“No.” Confusion flickered through Illyrio’s round face. “I thought I was the only one.”

Oh, he had already found out who the others were who dared to lay a hand on his family, but it was good to know they didn’t work together. With a flick of his wand, Illyrio was stunned, and the Imperious Curse was dropped. The feeling of joy and pleasure receded, and emptiness set in as soon as the Unforgivable was no more.

For a short moment, Jon contemplated simply lopping the magister’s head off. But it would be too quick, too clean, and the coin given to that street urchin would go to waste.

No matter how distasteful, Jon would make a spectacle, a warning out of this, for all to see and hear. His stunt in Tyrosh had been too quick, too merciful.

After binding him with ropes, making him look like a pig tied for the slaughter, Jon Stark grabbed the rotund man by the conjured rope and dragged him out effortlessly like a sack of rocks, bumping him into every stair and every corner.

Winter circled in the skies above Pentos, doubtlessly sending the city into an alarm. The moment Jon stepped out into the street, he was met with a thick crowd—it seemed the urchin had kept his word.

“Zaldrīzes!” they chanted, but it was a quiet one if still reverent. “Zaldrīzes!”

It meant dragon in High Valyrian. This was the first time they were seeing a dragon in the flesh—whether the fire-breathing beast or the riders, who were called the same. It seemed that the rule of the Valyrian Freehold had not yet been forgotten, even four centuries after the Doom.

Some were excited, but most seemed afraid as they quivered the moment his gaze fell on them, and none looked at Illyrio Mopatis with pity. The crowd instantly split when Jon stepped forward, making way for him. Everywhere he passed, the men, women, and children followed wordlessly.

The city watch and the other magisters seemed wise enough not to meddle but observe from a distance, and Jon reached the biggest square at the city’s centre unopposed.

Thousands had gathered in the surrounding area, all watching on with fear, trepidation, and… excitement. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. No matter the era, a mob was a gathering of baser emotions like curiosity, hatred, and bloodthirst, not wit, staunch morals, or intelligence. A crowd loved blood, and it loved spectacle more.

Jon steeled himself. A young Harry Potter would baulk at what he was about to do, doubtlessly calling him a dark lord or the like. But the boy had not truly known loss nor the harshness of the world. Jon Snow would probably approve, albeit reluctantly—the young bastard had steel in him, the will to see things done regardless of adversity.

With a thought, he awoke the bound magister and channelled magic in his throat.

“Today, Illryio Mopatis will meet his end for daring to send catspaws after House Stark!” His words were spoken in the local Valyrian dialect, and the magic carried them to every corner of the crowd. The fat magister awakened and attempted to struggle, but the ropes did not budge.

The crowd quieted, and he found himself under thousands of intense gazes.

He waved his hand, seamlessly withdrawing a large chunk of bronze, nearly three hundred pounds, earning himself a lot of surprised gasps, but Jon focused and quickly enveloped it in a cocoon of flames. Under his mastery of fire, the alloy turned molten and was quickly shaped into an enormous dragon. It took another minute to cool the statue under the crowd’s stunned gazes.

The insides were hollow, and, with a wave, Jon made a large opening, tossed Mopatis inside, and sealed the hole.

He kept a constant stream of mundane fire beneath the bronze statue, and soon enough, the tortured cries of Illyrio Mopatis followed as the acrid smell of roasted flesh wafted in the air, spiced with the stench of voided bowels. Truly, the increasingly anguished shrieks reminded one of a monster, and the crowd soon began to cheer. He spotted a handful of red priests who looked star-struck, their eyes filled with awe and devotion.

With a sigh, Jon suppressed his feelings as he slowly roasted a man alive. It felt like an eternity, but it was barely half an hour when the cries finally died out as the air was heavy with the smell of cooked meat and burnt fat.

The word would spread far and wide now, probably more and more exaggerated with every retelling. Winter slowly descended, giving the crowd time to disperse. The statue was left behind as a monument to his anger and revenge.

Jon quickly mounted his companion, and the merging of their senses brought him some relief. As usual, vengeance didn’t bring him much joy, only emptiness and more fury.

Still, it mattered little. Just like the young Jon Snow, Jon Stark had the stomach to do what needed to be done.

As Winter soared through the skies northwards, he melded all his magic and rage together and flung the most destructive streak of purple lightning he could manage at Illyrio’s Manse.

BOOM!

The world shook for a heartbeat, and nothing but ash remained from the ironwood wand in Jon’s hand. The luxurious manor fared no better—amidst the thick smoke, he could see a blackened crater filled with charred slag as if a meteor had fallen.

But his control was quite good; only the manor with its courtyard and walls was ruined.

The demons of Mantarys were a fearsome foe, but they were not insurmountable.

While their twisted appearances could frighten most, they fell to valour and steel as any man would. Even so, it seemed that their numbers were endless. Despite the difficulty, the tiger cloaks of Volantis and the lock-step legions of New Ghis managed to stymie the hordes surging from the demon road. Khazdil mo Hardan dropped his siege on Lhazosh and made it with all haste to Mereen along with his Iron Legions, who were personally trained by him and easily rivalled the armies of the old Ghiscari empire in ability.

The rising star of New Ghis proved itself once more, fifteen miles from the walls of Mereen, crushing the demons and sending their scattered remnants fleeing back to Mantarys. Maelon Maegyr, the general in charge of the tiger cloaks, managed to defeat the spawns surging from the Lands of the Long Summer, albeit not as decisively and with far greater losses.

Yet neither New Ghis nor Volantis was prepared for the black wraiths emerging from the cursed depths of Yeen and the Basilisk Isles—

Excerpt from ‘Magic Resurgent’ by imperial scholar Mardan zo Azdaq

Jon Snow

“What brings the Northern Dragon to our humble city?”

The Sealord was a formidable man—steely gait, thin yet agile frame, and the hardened blue eyes of a man who was used to commanding men. Tormo Fregar stepped ahead as a thousand well-armed men surrounded Winter, who seemed to pay no more attention to the encirclement than he would to an army of ants.

Jon snorted; he could even spot scorpions approaching from a distance, wheeled forward on great wooden carts. Maybe they could have harmed him and Winter six years ago when the dragon was still young, and Jon’s armour was yet to be forged.

“I’m looking for Noho Dimittis and Luco Prestayn,” he declared, his voice echoing through the whole city of Braavos.

There was no reason to lie, after all. Jon had the strength to speak the truth for all to hear, whether they liked it or not.

“And what do you want with two of our esteemed keyholders?” The Sealord was cautious yet firm.

“Just their heads.”

Tormo Fregar tensed, and the Northern King noticed that many soldiers had their hands on their pommels or crossbows.

“And what have the two keyholders done to earn your… ire?” The Braavosi’s voice was measured and forcibly calm despite stinking of fear.

“They hired catspaws after my wife and son.”

Everything stilled; it was so silent that you could easily hear a pin drop.

Jon was well aware of what he was asking—the Sealord had to choose between his duty to protect the city and its men against his reluctance to face him in combat in the middle of Braavos. Should Fregar let him pursue his vengeance unopposed, his prestige and power as Sealord would be forever diminished, but if he chose to fight, he risked death and devastation just for the lives of two men who had provoked an attack on the North unsanctioned.

“Are… are you certain of this?” Beads of sweat formed on Fregar’s brow. “They don’t have nearly enough coin to place a contract with the House of Black and White.”

“Indeed, they don’t,” Jon agreed amiably, “But they ordered the hit in the Red Court of Tyrosh.”

“Do you have any proof? What if they were framed?”

“Oh no, they covered their tracks well enough. Three different intermediaries, but I was able to track them. Quite cunning of them, trying to frame their current enemy for their misdeeds. I’m impressed, truly.” Jon felt his patience was waning. Why was he even explaining himself? “I have no quarrel with you or your city, but I care little for what happens to Braavos. Or perhaps you’re defending them… because they did this with your backing and agreement?”

Once again, Jon melded his fury, killing intent and magic, unleashing it in every direction. A few weaker men crumpled to the ground, some pissed themselves, while the rest recoiled as if struck. He wouldn’t hesitate to turn the whole city into a tomb, but it would mean involving himself in the mess that was Essos. That thought alone was enough to stay his hand, at least until other avenues of action were still open.

The suffocating pressure mounted higher and higher, and more and more soldiers buckled under it.

Just as Jon prepared to turn the surroundings into an inferno, Tromo Fregar stepped aside, signalling his men to retreat.

The lines of Dimittis and Prestayn could be traced to the original twenty-three founders of the Iron Bank. Jon the Cruel put everyone in the Dimittis and Prestayn manors to the sword, not sparing even the women, children, servants, or pets.

Their heads were cut off and mounted on bronze spikes in front of their homes for all to see. All attempts to remove the gruesome warning turned out fraught with difficulty. A few fortunate members of the said houses managed to escape the slaughter at first, yet did not live for long. Without failure, every single soul associated with the blood or the name of Dimittis and Prestayn met a grisly end under the oddest of circumstances. A fit, strong man at the peak of his vigour would slip on even ground and crack his head open. An experienced sailor would drown in a shallow puddle. After two moons, every single member of the two now accursed lines was dead one way or another. The manors themselves fared little better—those who bought them and settled to live there also met a tragic end within a year.

Jon Stark had visited one final place before leaving Braavos—the House of Black and White. Like every other stop in the Flight of Destruction, this left ruins and death in its wake, this time for good. Few loved the Iron Bank and its keyholders, and even fewer, the House of Black and White and its mysterious assassins. It was said that the Faceless Men attempted to slay the Northern King the moment he set foot into their temple, calling him ‘thief’ and ‘heretic’–-

Excerpt from ‘Cursed Places of the Known World’ by Maester Laryn