It had been ten days since Jon and Melisandre departed from Qarth and it was another five days still left before they reached Meereen.
After killing the first warlock, Jon had remained in the city for two additional days. And quite a few things had happened in those two days.
During that time, he had burned and razed the building of the House of the Undying to the ground.
The massive ruined structure, once standing almost at the heart of the city, became a constant reminder to the inhabitants that someone or something had destroyed the House of the Undying. In place of the large garden and the building, what was now left was a large charred black patch and few burned stones. Jon and Melisandre had used their powerful flames to burn the building and thus even the stones had melted.
For the common people, the House of the Undying, aside from occupying such a prime location in the city, had little significance. Though they had all heard legends of the warlocks' magic and power, people who believed in those tales were very rare. Even so, its destruction had caused a massive stir and commotion throughout Qarth.
Yet, no one was aware of the truth. Except for a select few. Barely two dozen individuals. These were the ones who had been captured by Xaro who witnessed Jon killing the eight warlocks and the other influential figures of the city who had later been informed of what had truly happened.
As Jon and Melisandre's horses trudged slowly across the vast, barren expanse where hardly anyone was in sight, his mind wandered again and again to what had transpired in Qarth.
The events of the past weeks were lingering constantly on his mind, and though many questions remained unanswered, questions that perhaps did not truly matter anymore after the destruction of the house of Unding, his curiosity was gnawing at him restlessly.
Even so, he had kept those questions to himself and had not broached the topic with Melisandre.
He did not wish to burden himself with those questions nor did he want to weigh his own thoughts down further with the shadow of the House of the Undying. At least not for the next few days.
Instead, he tried to keep his focus on the next phase of his plan. An undertaking that would be set in motion as soon as he reached Meereen.
Before leaving for Qarth, Jon had already made the necessary arrangements and given his instructions. By the time he returned, everything would be prepared. He would have to just give a go ahead.
What he intended to do was audacious and reckless, an act many would call sheer insolence.
But Jon was not deterred. He had full confidence in himself and his plans.
His plan was one that would shake not just a city, not just a kingdom, but both the continents. Its reverberations would not remain confined to Essos alone. They would echo all the way across the Narrow Sea, striking deep into Westeros.
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(Daenerys Targaryen POV)
I was staring at myself in the mirror. I was dressed in a pure white robe and, though it was not the most costly or luxurious dress I had ever worn in my life, it was certainly the best I had worn in a long time.
Not only the dress, two slaves had been allotted to help me get ready. The room I was staying in was also the largest I had lived in for years. I had somehow forgotten this feeling of luxury and comfort. But I was blending back into this luxury so easily.
And this should not be really surprising. For I am Princess Daenerys Stormborn.
I was beautiful. And I was not being arrogant in thinking so. There was no doubt about it. Those silver strands of hair, the pale skin, and the faint touch of purple in my eyes, all of it. But as I stared into the mirror, my beauty was blemished by a small bruise on my lower lip. A bruise given to me by none other than my very own brother.
Why had he slapped me? I had woken up the dragon and the dragon had breathed fire. No. The dragon had thrown a tantrum and scratched from its claws. If the dragon really breathed fire, our condition would not have been so worse.
It had been quite a few years since Ser Willem Darry had died, and he had probably been the last person who ever showed me genuine warmth. In his presence, the dragon inside my brother never awoke.
After his death, everything fell apart. The servants looted most of the wealth we had and fled. All that remained were a few of the treasures we had managed to carry with us from Dragonstone.
Since then, my life had been nothing short of chaos. We were constantly on the run.
At one time, many wealthy merchants and magisters had been willing to host us. I never knew what they truly expected in return.
Perhaps they thought my brother, powerless and influence less as he was, might still prove worthy in some way.
But like every other person, except him, I knew he was a fool. He dreamed grand dreams of recapturing the Iron Throne that he believed rightfully belonged to him. He imagined himself leading the greatest of armies across the Narrow Sea, slaying Robert Baratheon, and claiming the throne.
Or else, his plans were simpler still. Landing on the shores of Westeros, where every man who wept for our return would fall to his knees, and with their support at his back, he would slay the usurper and all his loyalists.
Just as his grand plans were nothing but fantasy, he himself was nothing more than a grand fool.
And probably as the people realised it, people willing to host us, or more appropriately people willing to allow us to leech of them had dwindled significantly. We had been forced to begin to sell our treasures and we had been reduced from a life of luxury to poverty.
And this had made my brother even more short tempered. Even more volatile. The dragon inside him would wake up for no reason at all. And then it would unleash its fury on me. Just as it had a couple of days ago.
"My lady," a slave entered my room. "The prince and the Magister have summoned you in the main hall."
I gave her a nod and stood up to meet my brother and our newest benefactor.
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