I woke up because of the strong earthquake in Colombia. Thank God it didn't get any worse in my area, and my family and friends are fine, but it was a big scare.
Much strength to my Colombian brothers and sisters.
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Essos, Meereen
1st Moon Of 58 AC
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Image of Valery.
The moon was barely peeking over the stepped peaks of Meereen's pyramids when Qavo stepped out of the narrow alley. The night air carried the rancid stench of burnt oil, garbage piled in dry canals, and the dense smoke of the great metropolis. He wore a coarse wool hood pulled down to his eyebrows and his face was dirty with ash and dry mud, mimicking the misery of any freedman roaming the slums in search of scraps after dark. No one looked at him twice in the gloom. That was exactly what he needed.
Beneath that ragged youth's exterior beat a hatred honed over days. Qavo was not a slave liberated by the conqueror's grace. He was the sole surviving son of a middle-class Master, a businessman who owned three silk weaving shops and two dozen bondsmen in the lower districts. Qavo still remembered the smell of burnt leather and the metallic taste of fear the night the mob of freedmen stormed his manor. He had seen the men his father had fed break down the doors with carving axes, drag his mother by her hair to the courtyard fountain, and slit her throat while shouting incoherencies about foreign kings. His father had been impaled on the main gate. He only survived because he hid at the bottom of the coal pit, breathing toxic dust until the screams stopped.
He crossed the Plaza of the Three Graces without quickening his pace. He descended a flight of broken stone stairs that smelled of stagnant urine and cheap myrrh incense used to cover the dampness of the sewers. At the end of the underground passage stood a rotten wooden door, reinforced with rusted iron bands. He knocked three times, paused counting his heartbeats, and then gave two sharp knocks.
The heavy bolt creaked inside. The door opened just wide enough for him to pass, and an emaciated hand immediately dragged him inside before sliding the latch shut again.
The basement was wide, with low ceilings supported by saltpeter-stained limestone arches. It had formerly served as a private holding cellar for high-value slaves; from that era, only heavy iron rings embedded in the masonry remained, with green-tarnished chains hanging from them, alongside a stale odor of confinement and rancid sweat. Thirty people occupied the space. Most wore harpy masks carved from black leather or worn bronze, with rapacious features and hooked beaks. Others had covered their faces with dark scarves. Tallow candles were lit on the floor, casting long, grotesque shadows that trembled against the walls.
Qavo positioned himself beside a stone pillar, trying not to draw attention. He recognized a few voices, though the masks muffled their intonations.
The one speaking in the center was a tall, thin man with a gray beard protruding beneath the bronze and small, malevolent eyes. He called himself the Raven.
"The Dothraki patrol in large groups," the Raven said, his voice raspy like stone scraping against stone. "Always the same paths. Always at the same time. It is difficult to kill them now without taking losses of our own, but that is a necessary sacrifice."
A murmur of approval rippled through the room.
"And do not forget the freedman dogs who serve the foreigner," a woman with a sharp, viperous voice added from the shadows. "Those who have forgotten who their true masters were. Those who now earn coins working for the usurper. We must remind them which side the steel is on before it is too late."
"It is not enough to kill soldiers," another rebel chimed in, younger, adjusting a leather mask that was too large for him. "We must touch the Savage. We must make him bleed where it hurts most. That woman of Valyrian blood who calls herself Khaleesi... or the witches he brought with him."
The Raven raised a bony hand to silence the interruptions.
"Step by step. First, we suffocate the city. We cut the supply lines, sow panic in the avenues, and break the confidence of the rabble. Then we attack the throne. The Great Masters will return. Some are still alive, waiting in Astapor and Yunkai. When they see Meereen burn again, they will emerge. And then this foreigner and his silver-haired whore will understand that Ghis never kneels before a horse lord."
A heavily built man spat with contempt against the floorboards.
"That Caspian...", he said in a deep voice from the back. "He says he gave us freedom. Pure conqueror's lies. He took our legitimate Masters just to put himself at the top. Except this one speaks with that strange accent and makes things appear out of thin air as if he were a god. A charlatan. A Dothraki dog hiding behind parlor tricks to scare fools."
Several low, hatred-filled laughs echoed in the room.
"And the women surrounding him," the same man continued, taking a step forward, emboldened by the echo of his own words. "His famous witches. Asshai bitches or wherever he dragged them from. Word in the bazaar is that one cures mortal wounds with green potions and the other talks to monsters in the sky. Old wives' tales to scare street urchins. I've seen them from afar when they come down with the guard. They are women of flesh and blood. Their throats can be slit just like any whore on the street. If you put one of those bitches in front of me, I'll spill her guts before she can utter a single curse."
Qavo felt an icy shiver run down his spine. It was not because of the man's words. The air inside the basement seemed to grow thick, cold, suffocating, as if the air pressure had suddenly shifted. He instinctively looked toward the entrance. No one new had crossed the door. Or so he thought.
The Raven struck the hard floor with the butt of his staff.
"Tonight we do not come merely to speak. Tonight we choose direct targets. The patrol leaving through the Iron Gate at the third chime. And the small barracks next to the old slave market. If we manage to kill ten Dothraki in a single night, fear will spread through the garrisons."
"And if we manage to catch one of the Khal's bitches," the youth with the loose mask added in a dreamy tone, "we cut off her hands and send them on a silver platter to the pyramid."
More sharp laughter shook the basement. Someone raised a clay cup filled with bitter wine.
"To the Great Masters!" he called out.
"To a free Meereen!" the others responded in unison.
It was then that a woman crossed the threshold.
She was strikingly beautiful. She had fair skin, smooth as porcelain, and long black hair tied in an elegant, low bun. She wore a simple tunic of gray linen, similar to those worn by the kitchen servant girls in the Great Pyramid. She walked with her head slightly tilted, her large, dark eyes fixed on the floor, exposing a delicate neck and a posture that conveyed vulnerability and confusion.
The thirty rebels froze in place. Nervous hands reached for the hilts of daggers and short swords.
"Who the hell are you?" demanded the Raven, stepping forward with his staff raised. "How did you get in here?"
The woman slowly looked up. Her full lips curved into a timid, almost childish smile.
"I was looking for... the way to my brother's house," she said in a soft, sweet, modulated voice, so fragile it seemed on the verge of breaking. "They told me in the avenue that I could cut through this basement to get to the market. Forgive me, gentlemen. I did not mean to intrude."
Her tone was so peaceful that the youth in the loose mask relaxed his shoulders and let out a mocking sigh.
"You are very far from home, girl," the man said, taking two steps toward her while sheathing his dagger. "This is no place for a lost servant girl. Come here, perhaps we can show you the way..."
He did not finish the sentence.
The woman's face changed.
It was not a gradual transition. It was a violent, horrifying metamorphosis, as if an invisible hand had ripped away a thin mask of flesh to reveal the monstrosity lurking beneath. The smooth porcelain skin tightened abruptly, darkening to a grayish, withered tone, carved with deep wrinkles and rotten cracks. Her cheekbones caved in grotesquely; her dark eyes receded into their sockets to become two yellow, glowing, phosphorescent orbs, devoid of human whiteness or pupils. Her mouth tore laterally toward her ears, exposing crowded rows of long, yellowed teeth as sharp as needles. Her neat black hair turned into a matted, dry, straw-like mass of gray locks. Her hands, delicate a second ago, elongated into misshapen knuckles tipped with claws of sharp, black keratin.
Valery.
The basement erupted into an instant chaos of howls and panic.
"Witch! It's the king's bitch!"
"Kill her! Kill her!"
The youth who had approached her tried to react. He drew his short dagger clumsily and lunged at her in a desperate gesture. Valery did not step back an inch. She raised her right hand. From the sleeve of her tunic, a black ribbon sprouted, thin as a silk thread, but its tip gleamed with an enchanted silver shine.
The lasso whistled through the air with a dry, sharp sound. It coiled with lightning speed around the man's neck, and Valery gave a firm jerk of her wrist.
The thread sliced through flesh, muscle, arteries, and vertebrae with zero resistance, exactly like a red-hot knife passing through soft butter. The head separated from the torso with a heavy, wet sound, flying through the air while spurting a jet of hot blood that stained the ceiling before rolling to a stop against the Raven's boots. The decanted body took two blind steps, spraying dark blood from the neck stump, before collapsing face down onto the flagstones.
The shouts of rage turned into howls of pure horror.
Valery did not waste a single moment. She brought her free hand to the sash at her waist and pulled out a small, carved glass vial. The liquid inside gleamed with a dark, viscous red. She yanked the cork stopper off with her teeth and swallowed it in one gulp.
The potion took effect in less than a second. The veins on her wrinkled face bulged with a crimson hue, and her movements became a blurred streak, unyielding to human eyes.
She appeared instantly behind a man trying desperately to flee toward the door. The enchanted lasso whistled again. It cut in a perfect horizontal arc at knee height. Both of the subject's legs were cleanly severed; the man hit the floor screaming in agony, trying to drag himself with his elbows while trailing a smear of blood and muscle. Valery leapt over him, pinned his back with her boot, and drove an iron short dagger directly into the base of his skull, silencing his shrieks instantly.
"Form a circle!" roared the Raven, backing away with his face disfigured by panic. "Surround the damned bitch! Attack her together!"
Three men, armed with short swords and bronze daggers, charged simultaneously. Valery spun on her axis with feline, terrifying agility. The black lasso extended around her like a living whip. It severed the first attacker's arm at the elbow; the limb hit the floor still clutching the sword. The second took a diagonal slash that split his torso from his left shoulder to his opposite hip; his ribs cracked as they burst open and his entrails spilled onto the flagstones before he could utter a groan.
The third managed to dodge the enchanted thread and delivered a deep slash with his blade into the witch's right shoulder, tearing the cloth and opening the grayish flesh.
Valery did not even blink. She turned her head, looked at the open wound with her yellow eyes, and smiled. A smile that was entirely unhuman. She pulled a second flask from her belt—this one a glowing emerald green—and poured the liquid over her skin while chugging the rest. Before the terrified man's eyes, the open flesh began to gurgle and sew itself together in a matter of two seconds; the tissues knitted with a wet suction sound, leaving only a smooth, pink line in its place.
The witch leapt from a overturned table. From midair, the enchanted lasso coiled around the waist of a woman trying desperately to scramble up a high ventilation slit. Valery pulled with excessive violence. The woman's body literally snapped into two halves at the navel. The lower half fell inward, striking the stone; the upper portion remained caught on the sill, dripping heavily onto those below.
The Raven, realizing the slaughter was absolute, tried to reach the side exit. Valery caught sight of him. She extracted a third flask—a light blue glass holding a luminous substance—and downed the contents. Her speed multiplied once more. She materialized in front of the rebel leader before he could take three steps.
The man raised his ironwood staff to defend himself. The lasso passed like a whisper. It severed both of the Raven's hands at the wrists in a single clean motion. The stumps spurted pressurized arcs of blood. The old man opened his mouth to scream in agony, but the lasso entered directly through his oral cavity, pierced his throat, and exited through the nape of his neck. His head hung by a thread of charred skin for a full second before hitting the floor with a dull thud.
Qavo was pinned against the wall, paralyzed. He had wet his clothes without realizing it; his legs shook so violently he could not stand upright. The basement air reeked of iron, pus, sulfur, and bile.
Valery slowly turned her head toward him. The yellow eyes, burning in the darkness, recognized him instantly.
"You," she said in a deep, cavernous, distorted voice that seemed to echo from the bottom of a grave. "The boy who went to yell at the Khal on his own throne."
Qavo collapsed to his knees on the blood-soaked stone. He raised his trembling hands in a useless gesture of mercy.
"Please... please... I only..."
He couldn't finish. The black lasso coiled around his torso and pulled with enough force to snap his spine in three distinct places. The boy's body bent backward at an impossible angle, snapping like a dry branch, and fell motionless onto the dripping floor.
The remaining survivors tried to fight as a group. They were too many for the confined space, yet too few to stop the abomination. Valery moved among them like black smoke. The lasso cut, severed, and beheaded without pause. Downings a potion of raw strength, she grabbed a burly rebel by the neck and slammed him against the low ceiling repeatedly until the man's skull split open like ripe fruit against the stone.
She then pulled out a bottle of concentrated poison and spat its contents against the faces of two men trying to corner her; the green liquid caused the flesh on their faces to bubble and peel away in strips as the men fell to the ground howling in pain.
A rebel managed to drive a short spear into her side. Valery looked at the splintered wood embedded in her abdomen, drank again from a green vial, and the spear was pushed outward by the rapidly regenerating flesh. Immediately after, she severed the attacker's head with a lazy, careless flick of her hand.
In under four minutes, the basement turned into an absolute slaughterhouse.
Whole bodies. Bodies split in half. Severed arms and legs floating in the thick mess. Heads still wearing their harpy masks, their bronze eyes staring into the void. Blood up to ankle height. The smell of iron, guts, and excrement completely filled the room.
Valery stood motionless in the center of the carnage. Her face was still that of the witch: yellow beast eyes, thick wrinkled skin, a mouth far too wide filled with fangs. She breathed slowly, savoring the silence that followed the chaos.
She looked around, peacefully counting the corpses.
Thirty.
Not a single one moved. None would ever conspire against her King again.
She wiped the back of her hand across her grayish cheek, clearing away a splash of hot blood that wasn't hers. Then, her face shifted back. The wrinkled skin softened until it regained its porcelain appearance; the yellow eyes returned to their dark, almond hue; her mouth reclaimed its thin lips, and her straw-like hair arranged itself into a neat bun. In a matter of three seconds, she was once again the beautiful, fragile young woman who had crossed the door.
She knelt beside the Raven's decanted body, reached into the bloodstained clothes, and tore off a silver medallion bearing the mark of the Harpy of Ghis. She slipped it into her belt as proof.
Then she walked toward the door, stepping through pools of thick blood without bothering to watch where she placed her feet.
Outside, Meereen's night remained just as silent. No neighbor had come out to look; in the slums, investigating screams in the dark was the fastest way to end up in a mass grave.
Valery looked up toward the heights of the Great Pyramid, where the lights of the upper terraces gleamed with a golden glow beneath the starry sky.
"Forgive me, my Khal...", she whispered to herself, a crooked smile forming on her lips, "I know I was only supposed to find the lair so you could send the Endermen to clear the place... but they dared insult your name."
She adjusted her clean tunic, fixed her hair, and disappeared down the street into the city's shadows, leaving behind a basement filled with corpses and the first truly devastating blow against the Sons of the Harpy.