Chapter 26 - Chapter 25: The White City

In the centuries that followed the First Men's oath of alliance with the Children of the Forest, the skinchangers were not considered heretics or monsters. Far from it—they were revered as prophets, priests, and guardians of the Old Gods.Yet four thousand years later, everything changed. The Andals came: tall, blond, and blue-eyed, crossing the narrow sea with their steel weapons gleaming, the seven-pointed star of their new god painted proudly across their chests. They brought with them not only sharp blades but also an unshakable, burning faith, and they swept across Westeros like a storm.It is impossible to discuss this invasion without a small rant. Think about it: four thousand years earlier, the First Men had already built a Bronze Age civilization. They had lived side by side with the magical Children of the Forest for millennia, and yet—what did they have to show for it? No progress beyond bronze! No leap forward in knowledge or industry! After four thousand years of coexistence with magical beings, their magical civilization had not advanced, and their technological civilization was stagnant.Four. Thousand. Years. And they never managed to transition from bronze to iron. Truly pathetic. Perhaps it is no wonder the Andals conquered them so easily. Six of the Seven Kingdoms fell quickly—some by force of arms, others by surrender, alliances, or marriage into Andal houses. Only the North, protected by the natural barrier of the Neck, managed to preserve some remnant of the First Men's power.The Neck itself was legendary for its difficulty. It was Westeros's version of the Shu Road, a narrow land passage that could be defended by a handful of warriors against thousands. Yet unlike the fabled road of Chencang in distant lore, the Neck was not the only path into the North—there were sea routes as well. Still, its swamps, bogs, and narrow causeways made it a nightmare for invaders.Just how difficult was the Neck to cross? Consider this: during the War of the Five Kings, a band of demoralized Ironborn managed to hold off a Northern host of ten thousand men for three years, using nothing but sixty-three archers hidden among the bogs. That is how formidable the Neck was, even in later centuries.Back in the age of the Andal invasion, the North was not yet ruled by the Starks alone. Several powerful houses vied for supremacy. The Boltons, infamous for their flaying, were among them. Their "little flayed man" and "old leech" sigils struck fear across the land, and their heritage and power rivaled that of the Starks. Indeed, during those early days, several Stark lords were captured, skinned alive, and their hides made into grotesque cloaks by Bolton lords. The Boltons' cruelty was matched only by their pride.But gradually, the Starks prevailed, unifying the North beneath their banner. Yet in doing so, they shed much of the spirit of the First Men. The Starks always boasted of their descent from the First Men, clinging to the worship of the Old Gods, but in truth they were no longer the same people.Consider the story of Lord Sea-Dragonhorn, remembered as the "Wolf King." He was the last recorded skinchanger monarch, a staunch ally of the Children of the Forest. But what did the Starks do? They slew him, his son, his beast companions, and even the greenseer who stood with him, sparing only his daughters as trophies. Would the true First Men, bound by sacred covenant to the Children of the Forest, have committed such a betrayal? Clearly, the Starks were First Men only in blood, not in spirit.The covenant signed on the Isle of Faces—where the First Men and the Children of the Forest divided Westeros and swore peace beneath the weirwoods—was meant to preserve harmony. Yet in the long march of history, only two groups truly honored it: the Wildlings beyond the Wall and the Marshfolk of the Neck. They retained their reverence for the greenseers and the old ways.South of the Neck, the story was different. Great houses like the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, the gardeners of Highgarden, and the Durrandons of the Stormlands all boasted descent from the First Men. They, too, worshipped the Old Gods for millennia. Yet after the Andal invasion, the tide turned. The Faith of the Seven replaced the Old Gods almost everywhere, especially in the South.Skinchangers and greenseers, once prophets, were now demonized. They became monsters, equated with White Walkers and goblins. "Kill them on sight," the Andals taught. And so they were hunted nearly to extinction.The irony was bitter. The godswoods of noble houses—once sacred places of worship—degenerated into little more than gardens for children to play in, or quiet groves where ladies might stroll in the afternoon sun. The weirwoods stood, but few remembered the gods they represented.Generations passed. By the time Eddard Stark's children were born, wolf dreams and skinchangers were considered no more than fairy tales. If someone openly claimed to be a wolf warg, they would be ridiculed, mocked as mad dreamers chasing shadows.This disbelief wounded even those with the gift. Jon, Arya, Bran, and Robb—all of them felt the pull of their direwolves. But raised in a society that considered such powers dangerous or laughable, they resisted. They suppressed their instincts, denied their talents, and nearly severed the bond that should have been their birthright.Daenerys Targaryen's gift was of a different nature, yet no less remarkable. Her connection to her dragons was comparable to that of a greenseer. Statistically speaking, a greenseer appeared once in a thousand skinchangers, and skinchangers themselves were rare—perhaps one in a thousand men. To have a "Mother of Dragons" born in Valyria's five thousand years of history was nothing short of miraculous. A genetic mutation, perhaps, but one that changed the world.Yet in the original telling, Daenerys resisted her nature even more than Jon Snow. She longed to play with her dragons, but her advisors and followers feared them. She wished to take them hunting, but her duties as queen left her no time. Fearing they would harm innocents, she locked them away in darkness, ignoring their cries. Eventually, she lost her dragon dreams entirely, cutting herself off from them. Only Drogon—the black dragon—remained sensitive to her emotions, sensing her well-being across distances.That Daenerys was a kind queen, but a failed Mother of Dragons. She clung to her role as queen, even at the cost of abandoning her true destiny. The title "Mother of Dragons" was not ceremonial—it was the essence of who she was meant to be.But the Dany of today was different. She did not resist. She embraced her gifts, cultivating them in her own way, without guidance but with determination. Her persistence bore fruit.During one of her black dragon's flights, Daenerys suddenly felt the connection deepen. She slipped into his senses, experiencing the world through his eyes. It was not full control, as a warg might command a wolf, but it was enough. She received his vision, his perception of the world.Wolf spirits could merge so fully with their beasts that they became them, body and soul. Dany's link was weaker—she could not steer her dragon, only borrow his senses. That was why she called it "lesser dragon spirit."Still, it was progress. She could not ride in his skin, nor command his wings, but she could see what he saw. And one day, perhaps, she might learn more.Her connection was strongest with the black dragon. The other two—white and green—remained elusive. Not because they rejected her, but because her bond with Drogon was so strong it consumed the "skill slot," leaving no room for others. Just as some skinchangers could control many animals while others bonded to only one, Daenerys's gift had its limits.Ser Jorah once told her that each dragon had but one true rider. A rider could not claim another dragon while theirs lived, though passengers might share a short flight. Dragons, like wolves, were jealous with their bonds.It was during one such dragon dream that Daenerys's eyes widened in wonder. Through Drogon's gaze, high above the Red Waste, she glimpsed something strange.A patch of white.For weeks, she had seen only the monotonous dark red plain stretching to the horizon, broken only by the comet's scarlet blaze above. Now, suddenly, a flash of white glimmered in the distance.At first, she thought it an illusion. A mirage, perhaps. But the longer she stared, the clearer it became. The black dragon's sharp eyes, capable of seeing for leagues, showed her a cluster of pale stone glinting in the sun.A city.Her heart raced. "Big Black, find it again," she whispered urgently. "It looks like a city!"Dothraki tradition forbade giving animals names, but Daenerys had never considered her dragons mere beasts. They were legends reborn, kin to her blood. She had named them early, though their "formal" names were as grand as any Valyrian legacy. Still, in private moments, she often called them by simple nicknames: Big Black, Little White, Little Green.If Drogon were not called "Deathwing," it almost felt a waste, his scales glowing black and red like a fiery cataclysm. Yet such a name was too grim, too cursed. She wanted him to live, to thrive. One day, when he was invincible, perhaps he would name himself with fire on his tongue: "I am Deathwing, Cataclysm, End of All Things." For now, he was only Big Black—her fiery child.The other two were softer in comparison. The green dragon shimmered like a flawless emerald, bright and proud. The white dragon gleamed like white jade, with streaks of platinum along his bones, as though touched by sunlight itself. Publicly, she sometimes told others they were named Black Diamond, Emerald, and White Jade—innocent names, harmless as jewels, disguising the truth of their brutal power.Now Drogon's pupils narrowed as he focused on the distant white patch. His wings beat hard, carrying him closer. The white blotch grew larger, until Daenerys could make out walls, towers, streets. A whole city, carved from pale stone, rising out of the Red Waste like a phantom."It really is a city!" she gasped, her hands trembling.It lay only thirty kilometers southwest of their camp, beyond the range of her water-fetching riders. Relief swept through her. They had been so close to missing it, wandering past salvation without ever knowing.When Drogon grew tired, he wheeled back and landed, folding his wings. Daenerys rushed to Jorah at once, breathless with excitement.The knight was astonished. A city in the Red Waste? Unheard of. He had traveled far, yet never once had he heard of men building in that desolate, cursed land."Princess," he said gravely, "if such a city exists, it should not. No man could survive here for long. Unless… unless it is abandoned.""Perhaps," Daenerys mused. "But it is no mere village. From above, it seemed vast. If it still lived, surely we would have seen signs already. Perhaps it is a lost city, a relic swallowed by time."Jorah nodded slowly. "Then we must send scouts. Even a dead city may offer shade, walls, and water. At the least, it will give us shelter from the sun."Aggo and two riders went forth, riding hard across the barren land. Within hours they returned, their faces pale."Khaleesi," Aggo said, bowing. "You were not mistaken. There is a city, built of white stone. Its gates are shattered, its houses crumbled. No men live there. Only wind howls in the streets, and flies swarm in the air. It is a dead place. No gods dwell there. We should not enter."Daenerys frowned. "Why not? If it is abandoned, then it belongs to us. Better no people—no need to fear their hostility."Jhiqui shuddered. "Khaleesi, everyone knows: when the gods depart, evil spirits come to hunt at night. Such places are cursed. Best we avoid them.""Everyone knows that," Irri whispered, nodding fearfully.Daenerys looked again toward the horizon, where the pale walls glimmered in the sun. A city of white, waiting in silence. A dead city—or perhaps a gift from destiny.(End of Chapter)---