The continent of Essos stretches vast from east to west. Its true size is unknown, and no map has ever captured its full breadth.
Because of its immensity, the world divides it at the great Bones Mountains east of the Dothraki Sea, separating West Essos from the more mysterious East. Yet only West Essos is truly known to men.
And whenever one speaks of West Essos—its history, its culture—one cannot avoid the Valyrian Freehold.
The Freehold was the most advanced civilization the world has ever known. Its capital, Valyria, was the greatest city in existence, the very heart of the civilized world.
It was a city-state founded on slavery, often called an empire for convenience, though it was neither kingdom nor monarchy. In truth, power lay in the hands of forty dragonlord families—wealthy, noble, skilled in sorcery, and able to ride dragons.
Behind Valyria's gleaming walls, those forty houses engaged in endless, ruthless, and bloody struggles for power and glory.
But all empires fall. The empire of blood and fire ended in blood and fire.
The Doom of Valyria—an unknown cataclysm—struck in an instant, annihilating the proudest city of the known world. The dream of empire collapsed into ruin.
Only one great family survived by fleeing before the Doom—the Targaryens. They crossed the Narrow Sea, lived in Westeros for over a century, and when Aegon the Conqueror rose with his sisters, he forged a dynasty that ruled nearly three hundred years.
After the Doom, Valyria's colonies and conquered lands were left to themselves. A century of chaos followed—a blood-soaked era history remembers as The Century of Blood.
The Dothraki swept westward, unstoppable. The Kingdom of Sarnor and many other nations fell before them.
At the same time, the first Valyrian colony, Volantis, declared itself heir to the Freehold and sought to rebuild its empire. But its ambition drew fierce resistance. In the naval war of the Rhoyne, Norvos and Qohor allied to shatter Volantene power upriver. Rebellions rose in its conquered lands. Weakened, Volantis collapsed into civil strife.
Even the invincible Dothraki tasted defeat for the first time beneath Qohor's walls, broken by the discipline of the Unsullied.
Thus, the Century of Blood came to an end. Out of its chaos, the political order of West Essos as known today was forged.
From Valyria's ashes rose nine Free Cities, each independent. Eight were descended from Valyrian colonies. But one was different: Braavos.
Braavos was never Valyrian. It was born of rebellion.
Eight hundred years ago, slaves chained to Valyrian oars mutinied, seizing their fleet. Lacking the strength to face their masters, they fled across the Narrow Sea to a fog-shrouded lagoon in the northwest of Essos. There they hid, unseen, for a century. Only when the last of their former masters had died did they reveal themselves, inviting the world to their One Hundred and Eleventh Year celebration.
Through the Iron Bank, they offered Valyria vast reparations for the stolen fleet—but not for their stolen lives. For the founders swore that in Braavos, no man or woman would ever be a slave again.
This first law—freedom—shaped Braavos. They waged wars against slavers, forged an unrivaled fleet, and built the wealth and mystery that made them the greatest and richest of all Free Cities.
Now, under torchlight at Qohor's lakefront docks, Möngke and his forces gathered. Dothraki riders and Unsullied stood watch. Moored ships groaned heavy with treasure—plunder of Qohor's fallen lords.
"Khal, forgive me for speaking boldly," cried the steward Ofor, trembling with outrage. "But you must not accept this man's oath of loyalty! He comes from Braavos—the Secret City, the Bastard Daughter of Valyria, strongest of the Free Cities!"
Möngke ignored him. He turned the Valyrian steel sword in his hands, studying it in silence.
Valyrian blades are rare beyond price, each with a name, each with its legend.
The sword Aslan placed in his hand was such a blade.
It was called Truth.
But Truth's tale was more than the story of a sword. It was the saga of a thousand years—a family's rise and fall written in steel and blood.
At last, Möngke spoke, his voice like thunder rolling across the dark waters.
"A fine blade… but too light. It does not suit me."
His words crashed like hammers upon Aslan's spirit, stripping away his confidence. Möngke's smile was faint, but his sharp eyes did not miss the boy's wavering expression, the storm of emotions etched upon his handsome young face.
The docks fell into heavy silence.
Then, from the shadows of the trees, came a voice—aged, calm, yet warm:
"Great Khal Möngke. Bas Bort greets you. I too will pledge my loyalty, together with Aslan."
Möngke stiffened. He had not expected this—Bas Bort, the blood mage himself, stepping from the darkness.
This was the man he had most hoped to find. Even before entering the city, Möngke had commanded his lieutenant to preserve Qohor's craftsmen and books above all else—and to seek the blood mage.
Now, here he was.
When Aslan brought forth treasure and steel, Bas Bort had watched intently from the shadows, his eyes filled not with malice, but with the deep, paternal sorrow of a teacher watching his beloved pupil.
Möngke had cast his bait, never expecting to catch such a prize.
The blood mage had revealed himself.