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Chapter Text

The first sight of shore made Din think that the boats had been tossed around so hard on the Shivering Sea that they were coming back to the cliffs of the Braavosian Coastlands. Rows of cliff jutted up perpendicular to the shore in long snaking fingers that sunk deep in the sea with rocky tips. 

The Navigator insisted that this was the upper-East coast of Westeros.

Din had never been much further than the borders between Braavos and Andalos and scarce ever stepped onto a boat. He had a distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach at the sight of the foreign land that he doubted was only due to his sea sickness. 

It was said that the Andals had brought an entire fleet of ships with them for their conquest, full of acolytes and livestock, iron, steel, and the matter of gold- though it was their seven-pointed star they brought across the Narrow Sea in the greatest number.

The Andals were so recently enlightened by a new God, one of seven faces (depicted by a star with seven points), and whom by their holy light commanded the men of Andalos to spread the word of the new faith to Westeros; a corner of the world where winters lasted many years and forests fought with men for land. There, men worshiped a different God, one of magic and without so divine a name; that was, without name at all.  

It was deemed unholy by the standards of the Andals’ many-faced God, and was therefore an affront to them.

In Braavos, there was an entire isle of temples and places of worship for different Gods; Moonsingers, Faceless Men, Red Priests and Priestesses that worshiped a Lord of Light, and now the faith of the Andals with their seven-sided Sept. Din had never taken well to any of them.

Din was an outsider among the Andals- in truth, he was an outsider among most.

On his voyage across the Narrow Sea to the Fingers of Westeros (the landing place of the first Andal fleet), Din found that many on the ship were also Braavosi: stragglers, orphans, sellswords, travelling whores, and some were even of the faith of the Seven; he was unwilling to associate himself with most of them.

Din was a straggler and an orphan but he had found the determination to resist the labeling of either. He also found the armor.

Seldom ever had Din been keen to remove his helmet. He wore it everyday through rain and shine and was loath to take it off even for sleep or to have it cleaned. 

Therefore, when a young Braavosi girl had approached him and wondered aloud why he would not remove his helmet, he gave her the excuse that “The clasps on my gorget are fused shut with rust.”

In fact, such as he wished were true. For so many years he had worn a helmet and the assumptions it came with; It was better than the reception that his unhelmed face brought out in even the kindest of people. 

Maybe, Din thought, he could get some new armor in Westeros. The First Men of Westeros only hammered bronze, but if he were to come into a somehow faithless service of the Andals, then maybe he could earn himself an iron suit. And depending on how expensive his skills to be- perhaps he could even prove to be worth Valyrian steel.

Din had only heard stories of the kind of armor that Valyrian steel created; much stronger, lighter, and sharper than any other kind of metal known to man- so dense that no sword could even scratch its rippling black surface. And yet, it was said that it was almost weightless, like wearing silk cloth. As such, Valyrian armor was few and far and cost as much as a kingdom. The dragonlords of Valyria mined and forged their famous metal into swords and armor but were unlikely to ever trade outside of their country.

Still, Din hoped.

As Din had been fretting over what the Andal reception might be, the same young girl that had asked him about his helmet had come again to stand by him. She was looking up at the steep cliffs with wonder. 

After a moment of silence, she asked him, “Are you a warrior?” 

He looked down to her. People generally seemed to seek his eyes in the thin slit of his visor as they talked to him but she seemed content just to talk into the air, her eyes never leaving the coast of Westeros. “No.” Din said.

“But you carry a sword.” She pointed to the blade at his belt. It was the only other steel he had worn everyday, but he made a point to keep it in better condition than his helm.

He took in a deep breath. The heavy salt of the air mixed with the metallic tinge of his helm and it was like being surrounded by the scent of blood. “Anyone can carry a sword.” 

… 

The ship ported in Heart’s Home, a castle hold in the Fingers. It had a small village but to Din and many of the travellers aboard the ship, it would only serve as a temporary stead.

Din waited on the docks patiently for the livestock to be unloaded.

Over the course of his entire life, Din never put much faith in people- of that, he made a rule. They’d come and go with anger or disappointment once they learnt who he was underneath his mysterious helmet and in one case it led to him staring down the pointy end of Red Priest’s knife. It all only served to make him check his helmet straps more often and sleep with a dagger in his fist. 

Though, every rule had an exception. And to Din, that was R’hazor. 

R’hazor was an old war horse Din bought while in Andalos as a young man. The merchant who sold him assured Din that the horse was Dothraki-bred, raised for battle; an exceptional stallion that was incomparable to any other horse, wild or stable raised. Of that, Din was weary. 

Dothraki horses were as sacred as the children of their hoards, and were not only bred for riding and war but for sacrifice as well. If R’hazor was indeed what the merchant claimed, the circumstances that led to his acquisition was suspicious to say the least. But Din didn’t ask questions. 

They had been ship bound for quite some time so when R’hazor saw Din, the old horse pulled himself free from the grip of the horsemaster and came over to him. 

R’hazor was grey in colour with a long wavy mane. Din could not afford much in the way of riding equipment but he preferred travelling light anyways; the woven blanket and sleeping roll Din had slung over his strong back was enough for the Braavosi. 

The light of day was beginning to dwindle so with R’hazor by the reins, Din set out in search of an Inn.

Eventually, he came to an Inn called Corvid’s Cast just on the outskirts of Heart’s Home. He handed R’hazor to the young groom who came out to meet him as they approached and entered the stead without a word.

The Innkeep was a stout woman with fingertips that were stained black. She welcomed him well and showed him a table in the back of the stead. 

Din sat, taking note of how many people were around him. She had directed him to a corner, away from who he assumed were locals. “Do you serve mead, good woman?” he asked her.

The Innkeep nodded but then she stopped. She studied him for a moment, frowning as she searched the gap of his visor for a glimpse of his eyes. “Aye… You don’t sound like an Andal.” 

The Andals were known to be tall, fair haired warriors. Din had the height but of course, under his helm he remained an enigma, a stranger. “I come from Braavos.” He told her.

She looked to only half believe him. “Aye we’ve ‘ad a number of your kind through ‘ere. Though I can’t say I’ve ever seen one of you with such a clunking bucket on his ‘ead.”

Din shrugged, thinking up another excuse, “I travelled a lot in Essos. It keeps the sand out of my eyes.” 

“There are no sands in the Fingers I’m afraid- You’d be wanting to ‘ead South to Dorne. I can find you a map if you’ve the coin.”

Din nodded, taking out his coin purse from where he hid it beneath his tunic. He swiftly set two silver coins in her hand. “For the map, the mead, and oats for my horse.” 

The Innkeep stared at the coins. “Should you be needing board?”

“No.” said Din.

With that, she scurried away. Din tucked his purse back beneath his tunic, careful to avoid the notice of any of the local men. Thankfully, none of them seemed to be bothered by his shadowy presence for they were occupied with a story that one of them was busy recounting.

“... I was told that King Robar has put forth an offer of truce in order to rally against the Andals.”

At the mention of the Andals there was hissing and cussing. Din couldn’t hear much more of their discussion as when the Innkeep came back through, she shushed them sternly.

She brought him a tankard of mead and a piece of folded parchment. Din stopped her with a tug to her sleeve before she could leave again. He asked her in a low, quiet voice, “Are there many Andal men between here and the Eyrie?”

She looked worriedly over at the table of men and then back to Din. “Why do you ask?”

“I want to know how much trouble I might find on the road.”

She still must’ve questioned his Andal allegiance because she chose her words carefully, “The mountains are hardly a safe place for anyone, full of shadowcats and the like.” With that, she left him again, but not before stopping by the group at the other table.

The locals were starting to take more interest in him and though the Innkeep was clearly insisting they keep to their own table, the men across the room were starting to cast him very unfriendly looks.

Din was not about to take any chances. He lifted the visor on his helm just enough to swallow down as much mead as he could, and then he left. 

Just as he was checking R’hazor’s gear and getting ready to leave Heart’s Home behind, he heard the approach of footsteps behind him.

Din spun around and drew his sword. It sang with the motion it made through the air. It had been tucked into his belt for so long, crying for the chance to spill blood. The person who stood before him wasn’t any of the men from the table he had been watched by, rather a much older, smaller man. He had fine white hair tucked under a leather cap and a prominent jaw. Din was not about to take any sort of chance 

When the old man did not flinch at the sword raised at him, Din took a step back towards R’hazor, “I’ll just be on my way.” He stated. “You want no qualms with me.”

“Is it true what they say about the Braavosi?” He asked, still not disturbed by the threat that Din posed.

Din hesitated. “Is what true?”

“You are all great swordsmen. What do you call yourselves again- Waterwarriors ?”

“Water dancers .” Din corrected. “Very few Braavosi are Waterdancers, you have me mistaken.” Tired, and sure this old man was not about to call upon the men in the inn, Din sheathed his sword and made to mount R’hazor.

“ You are the one mistaken, Braavosi.” The old man pressed. “Great Waterdancer or not- you’ll have no chance crossing through the mountains without me.”

Din pulled himself up to sit on R’hazor, grabbing his reins. He had not realised how much he missed sitting atop his old warhorse- their bond was undeniably mutual. “I don’t need you, I have a map.” Din told him.

“The Others take your map. If a shadowcat doesn’t snatch you and your mount up, it’ll be those men in the Inn that will sweep you from the mountain trail- that is even if you find it.” Din made to protest again but the old man was insistent. “You need me, Braavosi… more than you know.”

He considered the old man’s offer for a full moment. To Din, Westeros was another world and each Westerosi proved to be of mystery and conflicting alignment. He had no idea how big a shadowcat was but he was certain that he would not hold a defense against the Inn men. 

While Din had been thinking, the old man had retrieved his own mount from the stable. A pair of grey mules that were linked by a single rope. The latter one was piled high with gear- bags and pouches and the like. 

Din was quick to assert himself firmly, “I haven’t consented to letting you join my company, old man.”

The man mounted himself as swiftly as Din had. “It is you that is mistaken again, Braavosi. You are the one that needs me . I have spoken.” 

Chapter Text

Din watched his first sunrise in Westeros on the back of the old man’s second mule. The sky was hazy with the early light as the clouds hung low over the mountain valleys; but the air was clear and crisp, much different to what Din was used to in Braavos. 

The old man had insisted that Din not continue on the mountain path on the back of his warhorse, telling him that “one wrong finger on the reins and it's over the edge with the both of you.” Din might’ve protested, but strangely, he was accumulating an edge of respect for the old man. Whatever advantage the man considered personal was lost on the Braavosi, though- selflessness came at a high cost.

Whatever the reason, Din found his own interest in going along with the will of the old man. Together, they loaded their combined cargo onto R’hazor. It was more than the old warhorse was used to carrying but he seemed to take it well with the slow-paced stride they began on the winding mountain road.

Without looking back from the head of the line, the old man spoke to him through the wind. It was more than Din expected from such an aged voice. “It is not in my way to ask questions to a stranger's own business,” He said, “but you must know that I have no peaceful understanding with Andal men.”

“The Andals don’t keep peace with many other than their own.” Din replied.

The old man huffed at that. “And yet a Braavosi man wants council with them. Or is it perhaps you have a few of their names on a list hidden under that horrible helm?

I do not know your peoples’ strife with them- if the Andals murdered masses of Braavosi or if they are in a great debt to you- that does not matter to me. But I will not cease to stress that their ears are merely ditches in the dirt. If it is honor and a good sword in your arm you seek, you’re better finding it the farther you get from the Eyrie.”

Din considered the man’s words for a moment. It was true that he came to Westeros mainly in seek of service. He didn’t expect to witness such opposing loyalties after just coming off the ship. “Then why do you help me?”

“I help every stranger that ports in Heart’s Home through the mountains.” He said like it was obvious. “Most of them have no doubt fallen victim to the Andals’ sweet summer song of righteous war and now wear their seven-pointed star into battle against the men who have lorded over this land for generations. But to every one of them, I have told them this very thing- to which I tell you at this moment… I hold tight to the hope that one of you will listen.”

“You mention a place farther than the Eyrie with higher honor?” Din asked.

“Yes,” the old man said. “Any place. If you don’t mind the snow, head to Winterfell in the far North. The Starks there are proud of their honor-filled wolfsblood, no doubt a man of honest strength could earn stead there. Or, if it is sand you prefer, take the road South to Dorne. The Dornish hold strange customs but theirs is a great unrelenting will- they’ve never bent to an enemy.”

The old man let the conversation die there, his voice hanging on the wind. His words played over and over in Din’s thoughts for the rest of the day’s ride.

… 

The two men and the three mounts found a place to lay camp for the night in a high valley seated between two mountains. The old man had told him that from this point they’d “see a shadowcat coming- which only lasts a moment- before the beast is upon you, tooth and claw first.” It was more than enough reason for Din.

From the bags the man unloaded from R’hazor’s back, he produced a small pot of dried salt beef, and another filled with stringy seaweed that was preserved in a murky sort of vinegar. 

“All the Braavosi I’ve met have mouths.” The old man said when Din made to refuse the food. “You’ll make no good meal for the shadowcats if you don’t eat.” He jested, insisting the bowl filled with the beef and seaweed into Din’s hands. “I have spoken.”

“Thankyou.” Din said. But he still made no move to move his visor.

The old man wasn’t offended, but his growing curiosity was rising to a level that Din could sense across the small fire they had made between them.

“You said it is not in your way to question a stranger’s business.” Din said firmly. 

“But you understand that it may never earn you a place above suspicion no matter where you go. I’m not so interested if you are nothing but a shadow under your helm, but most others will be much more assertive in solving their doubt.” 

Din was aware. In fact, he had spent many hours on the ship over to Westeros wondering on the many ways he might be met by sword once someone of high status and higher pride found agitation in the fact that he was strongly unwilling to remove his helm. None of them seemed to be situations so easily avoided.

“I never intend to stay in one place for that reason.” Din told him. “A wandering stranger remains a stranger twice as long.”

“I see.” Said the old man.

In the lull, Din found some security and turned so that his back was to the fire. He unlatched the clasps on his gorget and carefully lifted the helm from his head. It was the first time in a number of months that he had taken it off fully and the sensation of fresh air rushing to surround his head was never lost. Before anything else, Din took in a single deep breath; letting it fill his chest and release through his mouth without the barrier of metal so close to his face. Air almost felt foreign to Din, like the smell of an exotic spice that would capture entire flocks of people once unloaded from Lys in the trading ports of Braavos. With his back to the fire, he could feel the heat as it dried the hidden curls of his hair from as they had been dampened- and remained dampened- on the voyage.

In the undisturbed air, he was reminded of his condition. The ugly truth of his face that demanded the constant shield of his helmet. Perhaps on his journeys through Westeros he could find some sort of healer or magician that could send away his permanent mask with the aid of herbs or fire or knife- he’d even accept the means of blood magic to cure him.

Once he heard no movement around him- the old man had not moved to catch a glimpse of his face, and R’hazor had made no indication that anyone else was around them for miles- Din picked up the bowl in his hands and started to eat.

“Do you have a name, Braavosi?” the old man asked behind him.

Din shook his head between bites of the hard salt beef.

“Not even a family name?”

Din swallowed. “I don’t have a family.”

The old man was stubborn, “All men have a family.” 

“Even if I had, it doesn’t matter.” Din told him as he finished off the few strands of seaweed. “Whoever I was is now only dust in the wind.” Then, with one last breath of clear, unfiltered air, he put his helmet back on.

Din was lying on all accounts. He had a name, first and last, and a family too; and he remembered them. His early years of childhood were like any other and he had carried the untarnished memory of them to this day. 

Din remembered his mother; a hard working Braavosi woman with a kind face and long curly hair. She worked every day in the city kitchens but found no burden in singing to him every night- a song in a made up language about a hero lost to time she named Mand’ah Lorien .

The memories of his father were no less strong; a man he imagined he’d now very closely resemble that came from the small southern isle, Lys. Din remembered often seeing his father on the docks and in the market, transporting trade goods by the cart with only the strength of his own two arms. In those days, Din would be swept up with the crowd in wonder of all the smells with no helmet to insult and shut him away from any new aroma or taste.

He would not let himself forget them. Sadly, it would be more probable that they would have forgotten him . 

After illness struck Din in his late boyhood, his parents became strangers of their own choice- they could not bear to look upon his face as it changed. They cast him out in fear and disgust at what he was quickly becoming. 

He was not dying- not in the way that a plague kills, quickly - for this was an illness of utter cruelty, of slow paced disfigurement that starts outside and ends inside. Din was a child still, with soft hands and round cheeks but at that point they had already considered him fit for a shroud.

The Braavosi kept many gods among them but his parents took to none; they deemed his sickness beyond the repair of any higher order or magicians’ tricks. 

He was cast out and the door was shut behind him.

“A man has many names, I say.” The old man said as Din turned back to face him. His eyes were burning a little but not from his proximity to the fire. The old man took the bowl back from his outstretched hand, “This man’s name is Kuiil.”

“Kuiil.” Din repeated.

The old man- Kuiil- looked him over again, this time without lingering in fixation on his rusted helmet. “A man is a stranger of his own making, but all men have at least one name. You may choose one right now- true or false, I shall never know.”

Din thought of his mother’s hero and said, “Mand’o.”

Kuiil repeated, “ Mand’o .” though it sounded different, interpreted to suit a Westerosi tongue. “A man has spoken… A stranger he is no more.”

Chapter Text

Before the lights of morning had invaded the skyscape on the fourth day, Din was woken by the sounds of a spooked R’hazor. He woke quickly, knowing from experience that the old warhorse was seldom troubled by any man or creature, and it was just as well- if he had been dozing a second longer, he’d be dead.

A monsterous cat was prowling around their campsite. Now that Din had woken and noticed the threat, the cat left the shadows of the boulders . It had sleek black fur with white stripes and It’s ears were pressed far back against its head; the beast was ready to pounce.

Quick as a whip, Din was up and he ripped the sword from his belt with the momentum. The old man was nowhere to be seen but the pair of mules remained calm, grazing on the dry grass that grew in the mountain cracks.

The shadowcat growled low, angry that her prey had awoken and bore steel against her. Din moved in an arch, his sword raised flat in front of him, so that he could come between the cat and R’hazor who was still tied down to a post. This was no open field or even a narrow street, Din knew it would be a feat to fight an animal in such a rocky cavern- the ground was uneven and the danger of a rockslide loomed in on every side.

The cat lunged, slashing at him with a huge paw; its claws were as large as daggers and they looked like they could disembowel a man with one swipe- Din resolved to keep his distance as much as possible.

He moved back and when the shadowcat landed, he aimed to strike at its shoulder. The cat was quicker, however, and it reared back. R’hazor was kicking at the ground and baying at the beast which only seemed to further tempt the predator; it aimed at Din again. This time it caught his side with the tips of her talons and the spot quickly grew hot with blood.

The Braavosi bit back the sharp pain and raised his sword arm again. It was his turn to land the blow, carving into the flesh of the beast’s front leg with which it tried to maul him.

The shadowcat growled low in pain but she was strong- in one swift move, she spun on her back paws and the lash of her tail sent him flying into the rockface of the cliff. 

His helmet took the impact the worst and Din could feel the metal cave in against his temple. His sword had left his arm on the blow and clattered uselessly against stone and dirt. His senses banged around on the inside of his helm like a bell and in the second that his vision cleared he saw the shadowcat bound over to him.

However, the kill never came. Instead of his last sound being the clamp of jaws around his body, it was a scream from the beast. Through strained eyes, Din watched the great animal thrash as it tumbled to the dirt in a dead heap at his feet. 

When the shadowcat fell, Kuiil was revealed beside it; he pulled a long knife out of where he had dug it into the animal’s throat. 

The old man didn’t appear very challenged by the fight however everything around Din was still pulsating and his body visibly heaved as his adrenaline uncoiled. Kuiil wiped the shadowcat’s blood off his knife on the hem of his tunic. “I was not wrong,” he said, “the Braavosi are indeed great swordsmen.”

Din lifted an arm to inspect the side that the shadowcat had struck him and sure enough, there was a nasty gash just below his ribs- it stung but thankfully it was not too deep. “I’m not so sure about that.” he said. There was no telling what damages his head had obtained.

Kuiil came around the shadowcat’s body and took the Braavosi by the uninjured arm, hoisting him up so that his weight was supported by the old man’s shoulder. For now, Din’s sword remained in the dirt. He led Din back to the mounts where R’hazor was still snorting in concern and the mules became anxious at the fresh smells of so much blood.

“This will be your first scar that you’ve earned in Westeros, it is a badge of strength.” Kuiil told him.

Din tried to chuckle through gritted teeth, “It was almost my last too.”

The old man left him only to return with simple healers supplies from one of his pouches. He began to patch him up, explaining how some of the smallest fights waged by the king’s of the First Men determined the sigil that they would fashion their house with. 

For instance, one of the kings in the West took the lion’s image for his own as one of his ancestors had valiantly slain a mountain lion and the Gods gifted him with a seat atop a bountiful gold deposit- his became the house of the golden lion. Just North of The Fingers, another house took the image of the lizard-lions for the swamps that made up their land and made them difficult to attack. 

Din hissed when Kuiil pressed a wad of linen to his wound. “Is there a house that takes the shadowcat for it’s sigil?”

Kuill shrugged, securing the makeshift bandage over his clothing and around his waist “Not that I know of.”

… 

Over the next few nights, the old man and the Braavosi feasted on the fresh meat of the shadowcat, roasting it till tender over their small fire. It was a luxury, irresistible, and so each time Din found himself willing to turn around and take off his helmet without as much convincing.

One evening, Kuiil told him about the extent of his knowledge about Braavosian culture- which wasn’t very much- it was lighthearted. Din found himself smiling slightly which was more so than usual.

“I’ve only ever seen one Waterdancer fight,” he was saying, “a few moons ago. He was tall like yourself, but somewhat wider, I say…and he fought differently than yourself.” Din could hear the hesitation in the man’s voice as he continued, “I wondered if you’d lied to me before at Corvid’s Cast- about not being a Waterdancer- guess you proved yourself a man of truth.”

Din straightened visibly. “You were watching me fight that thing until you could pass judgement on my word?” He snatched his helmet up. Just when Din was starting to consider his liking for the old man would be when his character comes to question- Din was reminded of what he used to tell himself: that the only affection he should extend to others should be tolerance and nothing more; For then, one can’t be betrayed. Not again.

“You must remember, Mand’o, that I’ve led more than a few of you through these mountains. Some join the Andals, others feed the wildlife- though, I can assure you that the latter did so even with my assistance.”

Din hesitated to put his helmet back on. He studied the dent in its crown. “What motive could I possibly have to lie about being a Waterdancer?”

“It would make me suspect you less a threat- isn’t that what your helmet does? Catch your opponents off guard so that they’re wondering who you are instead of noticing the knife you’re sticking in their belly. I say you should use that- but know that you will come across men like me, men that will see through your words and throw you to the beasts without a second thought.”

Din put his helmet back on as he turned again to face Kuiil. “Which men are the Andals?”

The old man wrung his hands over the warmth of the fire,”There are many of each-- I say: treat them all like they are the latter, my friend.”

It seemed counterintuitive that Kuiil would be so forthcoming on providing Din with strategies to outwit his enemies- especially when it was his own point that many of those that he guided through the mountains became his own foe. Perhaps Kuiil could see through Din, even beyond the Braavosi's internal character; perhaps the old man could see Din’s own future. Did the old man trust him? And if he did, did it make him a fool?

The old man had called him “friend” which to all might be a thoughtless courtesy, but to Din- it was a reminder. It reminded him that not all those he may encounter in Westeros would be pleased to keep his company as brief or meaningless as he might hope; some will want more from him and perhaps more than he could ever offer.

As Din had finished his momentary brood, Kuiil spoke up again. “We’re a day’s ride from the Eyrie, you’ll be wanting to know what to expect.” Din nodded and he continued. “It’s impenetrable by force, many have found that the bloody way. It’s the Andals high seat now, dressed by their king with their star and the walls with the heads of children. As such, the only way to get up there is by the thin stair that winds around its perch mountain- and you’ll only get there if you can convince the men at the Bloody Gate to allow your passing.”

Children? For the first time, Din was taken aback. Up until now he felt indifferent to the Andal’s cause-- but children ? No country was without those that harmed children in unspeakable ways, but never had he heard of a race that openly displayed such brutality as decorations of warning. Of all that he knew of the Andals, this was new. He was wise not to let Kuiil notice any change in him.

“What should I tell them?” Din asked.

“Anything you can make sound a truth, I say. Tell them you’re a Braavosi, tell them you’re a Waterdancer- they’ll like that, it’ll make you valuable- tell them you want council, service.”

After a moment of hesitation, Din wondered aloud, “You seem certain that I’ll choose to fight for your side… why?”

“Because it is the right side. Whether you know that tomorrow or in five years- you will.”

Chapter Text

The Bloody Gate was more so a castle than a mere gate. It stood in the crevice of a narrow valley with two large pillars flanking a massive iron gate. 

The two men looked to the structure from a plateau, beyond the eye of the watchmen that stood guard on the gatehouse.

“I owe you more than my thanks, Kuiil.” Din said sincerely.

“The Others take what’s more than thanks.” Kuiil deflected gruffly. But then he gestured back to the crude package of what was left of the shadow cat, strung on the mule’s back. “The carcass of a beast is enough for this man. And if it serves as motive for you to return to the Vale some day, I shall make a gift to you of the pelt of the animal- permitting you do not come to me under the banner of my enemies.”

Din agreed, “I look forward to that day, Kuiil.” 

He avoided making the promise of a gift for he did not know whose head he should name. Din could not predict the journey that his loyalties might take, much less how hard he might have to search for truths of any kind in this unfamiliar world.

Kuiil made to steer the pair of his mules back the way they came, off the rocky plateau, but just before he left, he said, “I shall unknow you now, Mand’o. A stranger you are to me once again. You’d do well to do the same for my sake until the time comes when we meet again. I have spoken.”

And just like that, it was just Din and R’hazor again. 

It wasn’t easy to deny the harsh pit that Kuiil’s departure left in him. While he might not have considered their brief company a friendship, he was scarily aware of how his perceptions had been influenced so quickly by the encounter of one old man. 

Din had come to this country without knowing who’s war he might be offering to fight for- and further who he’d be fighting- but within a few moons it seemed his loyalties had already been set on a path.

If he were to continue at this rate, he might be opening himself to the lack of a sense of honor or justice and come to be truly grey- nothing more than a sellsword whose chivalry could be bought like stock for trade. He would not let himself come to that.

But therein lay his first conflict of morality- did he forget Kuiil by words as well as name. Should Din renounce all that Kuiil had told him out of some pride-born suspicion? Or was it better to take a vow of impartiality now and look to all others… with what he lacked to judge the first by.

Then, as if one could smell despair on the air, R’hazor snorted at him. The warhorse could so easily sense the Braavosian’s trouble but unfortunately, the only help he could offer the man was without any verbal communication or any deeper understanding. R’hazor looked to him with large brown eyes, blinking as if to wonder where they were to go next.

Din’s freedom was not an illusion. He could take up any path he pleased in this moment, all were more equal now than they ever may become. Kuiil had been only one man- and an old one at that- so would it be so unjust of him to break his word? Hells, Din had never sworn the man a word of any language, truly he did not owe the man a loyalty.

And still… the prospect of doing just that pulled on a chord in him. He had honestly believed all that Kuiil had told him and trusted in the man’s great sense of judgement. His sense of justice too was more so than Din had seen in any man and he doubted that it could be lesser than a King’s.

The Braavosi steered his Dothraki warhorse down the rocky path and towards the Bloody Gate.

Din and R’hazor were met by two mounted Andal swordsmen well before they approached the gate. The Braavosi eased his horse’s pace to come to a stop. 

Both men wore a blue tunic with the seven-pointed star and iron half-helms with long blue plumes trailing from them. Both of them were heavily armed.

The first one who reached Din spoke first, “Ho, stranger! What matters do you have beyond the Bloody Gate?”

The second one halted on the other side of him as Din replied “I mean to see the Andal King. Tis a matter of service I have.” 

Din’s accent was unmistakable, and no doubt, the sight of his foreign warhorse and strange clothing was weighing on their minds. 

The first man spoke again, “You wear a helm of iron, stranger- but it is your garb that is most confusing, you wear no indication of house or region. What is your name? Where are you from?” If he wore any bronze, he had the feeling that the Andals might’ve killed him on sight- it was the metal of their enemies.

Kuiil’s words ran loud through Din’s mind. “Mand’o. Braavos.” He said.

“A Braavosi is no new sight, we have many of your kind in our ranks- but you, stranger, are most troubling.” Said the second Andal swordsman.

“I am trained in the skills of Waterdancing, my mentor was a strange man- but he told me to always be with arms and helm, for an enemy will always strike for the skull.” Mand’o told them.

The second one raised his voice with a scoff, “Rather the heart they go for, you’ll want a breastplate to survive in Westeros.”

“Perhaps your forges might accommodate me then.” Mand’o said.

The Andals looked to each other then back at Din. The first one reigned up and said “You’re passing will be granted, Mand’o , but it will be without your horse and arms when you meet with the King.”

… 

“Is that a horse or a mountain lion?”

Din turned to see a young stable boy staring aghast at the great sight of R’hazor. He handed the boy the reins. “A horse. Dothraki-bred.”

The boy only stared at the reins in Din’s hand. “What are Dothraki?” he asked.

“You’ve never heard of them?” Din thought that strange. As a boy, he had known much about the Dothraki- one would need to, to know not to wander far enough to meet their curved blades. Even here, across the Narrow Sea, he expected that people would know of Dothraki people as they did of Braavosi people. The Boy only shook his head, finally accepting the reins. “They’re a breed of great horse lords. Count yourself lucky- R’hazor is the closest you’ll get to their kind in your lifetime, boy.” 

The boy probably expected R’hazor to be brutish because when he went to lead the horse away, he was shocked at how little a tug was needed to get the large animal to follow. 

The Bloody Gate was far behind him but he doubted he wouldn’t be crossing through it again soon. It was a relatively quick journey along the High Road from the Gate to the foot of the Giant’s Lance- that was the name given to the towering mountain on which the Eyrie perched atop. It was no question as to why it was named so.

At the foot of the mountain and all around Din, men were busy in constructing what looked to be another Bloody Gate. A new set of gates had been erected but with far more walls around it, making it twice the castle that the Bloody Gate had been. 

Din was escorted further by the two Andal swordsmen of whom he learned were named Barrian and Brunn. After stripping him of his knives and sword, they took through the yards until the newly laid stones became pine scaffolding and tents- closer and closer to the way up the Lance.

“On yer way up,” Barrian was saying from atop his horse, “you’ll come to two more waycastles: Snow and Sky. This one’s Stone. They’ll give you a fresh mule each time.”

“Right.” Mand’o said. He was only just noticing the carvings in some of the stones around him- axes and stars. Mand’o was yet to see any heads, child or otherwise.

“You’ll want to pray to all the Gods that your mule doesn’t break its leg on the way up- it's a long long fall.” Brunn told him with a smirk.