Game of Thrones – Histories and Lore – Season 5 Complete – ENG and TR Subtitles

Game of Thrones – Histories and Lore – Season 5 Complete – ENG and TR Subtitles

SHIREEN: The Dance of Dragons:
A True Telling by Grand Maester Munkun. Being a history of the war
of Targaryen succession between the Princess Rhaenyra and Aegon,
Second of His Name that nearly destroyed the realm. VISERYS: The Dance of the Dragons. A stupid name for a Targaryen civil war when my ancestors
danced away my birthright. Before the war, House Targaryen
counted 18 dragons. By the end, we had two,
and nearly as few Targaryens. We would never be
as powerful or as feared again. The dance began, as many dances do,
with an old man and a young girl. The queen had failed
to produce a son for her king so he anointed his daughter,
the Princess Rhaenyra, as his heir. But years later, the king remarried, and his new wife, Queen Alicent
of House Hightower, gave him a son. Feeble and foolish, the old king
refused to change the succession. He didn’t even see how his court had split
into two rival camps of blacks and greens, after the dresses that the princess
and the queen had worn to some tourney. One night, a servant found
the old king had died in his sleep and ran to inform Queen Alicent. Protocol dictated that the bells would be rung
and a raven sent to Dragonstone to summon the heir, Princess Rhaenyra,
for her coronation. But Alicent had other plans. Once she saw her dead husband’s body,
she sealed the room and had the servant thrown
into the black cells to ensure his silence. At the hour of the owl, the Lord Commander
of the Kingsguard, Sir Criston Cole, summoned the Small Council
to inform them of the king’s death. Ser Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King
and father to Queen Alicent, demanded that the succession
be settled immediately. The decrepit old men
of the Small Council were confused. The succession was settled in their minds. The old king
had forced the lords of Westeros to swear fealty to Princess Rhaenyra
as his heir. But Ser Criston Cole rightly pointed out
that a son comes before a daughter. The council argued until dawn, when the Master of Coin finally stood up and declared
he would have no part of treason. Ser Criston Cole wisely opened his throat
with a dagger, ending the debate. None were more surprised
to hear of Prince Aegon’s succession than Prince Aegon himself. At first, the fool rejected the crown, but his mother pointed out
that his sister, Rhaenyra, would return such loyalty by taking his head. As the old king’s true-born son,
he’d always be a threat. Aegon relented. He was crowned in the Dragonpit, and his
wife and sister, Helaena, became queen. His brother, Aemond,
flew off to win over the few great lords whose support Aegon didn’t already have. The banner of the gold dragon
flew over King’s Landing and the Red Keep as Aegon, Second of His Name,
ascended the Iron Throne. He would not sit it long. When ravens carried the news
of Aegon’s coronation to Dragonstone, Princess Rhaenyra
summoned her own black council. With her was her uncle and husband,
Daemon Targaryen, considered by many
to be the most dangerous man in Westeros. Few lords supported her. But the greatest of these was Corlys Velaryon,
who controlled the largest fleet in the realm, and his Targaryen wife, Rhaenys,
the old king’s sister. Then there were her five sons,
although none grown to manhood. A pitiful assembly, really. Combined, they couldn’t match
the power of House Hightower alone. But Rhaenyra had dragons. She, Daemon, and Rhaenys
rode huge and formidable beasts. And three of her five sons were riders, as well. Dragonstone also housed
six more dragons without riders. Against this, King Aegon
had only four dragons of his own. Dragons can burn a city,
but only armies can take and hold it. If she was to prevail,
Rhaenyra desperately needed the support of the few great houses
not already sworn to Aegon. Her eldest son, Jacaerys,
flew to the Vale in the north. Her middle son, Lucerys,
flew to the Stormlands. Rhaenyra hoped that the war would begin and, if the gods were good,
end with diplomacy. As always, they weren’t. ROBERT: Little Prince Lucerys must have
wet himself when he entered Storm’s End and found king Aegon’s younger brother,
Aemond, already with Lord Baratheon. Aemond was fierce, and even before
he lost his eye and set a sapphire in its stead. But the princeling pleaded his mother’s case. Finally, Lord Baratheon made his decision. “Go home, pup,
and tell the bitch, your mother, “that the lord of Storm’s End
is not a dog she can whistle up.” As Aemond’s false eye gleamed at him, the princeling fled the castle
and mounted his young dragon, Arrax. The rain fell in sheets and great bolts of lightning
lit the world bright as day. Arrax was struggling to stay aloft in the gale when a roar
shook the very foundations of Storm’s End. Aemond rose through the clouds,
and below him, the monstrous Vhagar. Vhagar was five times the size of Arrax, and the hardened survivor
of a hundred battles. Vhagar caught him above Shipbreaker Bay. Watchers on the castle walls
saw distant blasts of flame and heard a shriek drown out the thunder. Prince Lucerys fell, broken,
to be swallowed by the waves. With his death,
the war of ravens came to an end, and the war of fire and blood began. CATELYN: When Rhaenyra heard
of her son’s death, she collapsed. She considered ending the war right then, until a raven arrived
from her husband, Daemon. Her son would be avenged. Whispers slithered through the taverns
and back alleys of Flea Bottom. Two men were found. One was a former gold cloak, the other, a rat-catcher in the Red Keep
who knew all its secrets. History remembers them only
as Blood and Cheese. One night,
Queen Helaena entered the royal apartments with her daughter and two sons
to put them to bed. Without warning, Blood and Cheese burst in,
daggers in hand. They told her that a debt was owed. A son for a son. Blood and Cheese demanded she choose
which son would be ripped from her forever. Queen Helaena pleaded with the men
to kill her instead, but they refused. Weeping, Helaena named
her younger son, Maelor. Perhaps she thought
the boy was too young to understand, or perhaps because the older boy
was King Aegon’s firstborn son and heir. “You hear that, little boy?”
Cheese whispered to the younger son. “Your mama wants you dead.” Then Blood struck off the older boy’s head
with a single blow. When the guards burst in,
they found Queen Helaena still screaming, clasping her dead son’s body to her,
mad with grief. The blood of their children transformed
a dynastic dispute into a war of annihilation. The grief and rage of losing a child
could burn down the world. Either Aegon or Rhaenyra
could live at the end, but not both. VISERYS: Rhaenyra’s forces struck
yet another blow. The moment the Lord of Harrenhal
saw Daemon Targaryen circling the castle on his dragon, Caraxes,
he struck his banners and surrendered. The blacks now had
the strongest castle in the Riverlands. Darker news still came to Aegon. Thanks to Rhaenyra’s sons,
Winterfell had declared for Rhaenyra, as had the Vale. Furious, Aegon dismissed his grandfather,
Ser Otto, his Hand, and appointed Ser Criston Cole,
who swore to march on all the lords who had declared for Rhaenyra,
and put their castles to the torch. Cole and the royal army first marched north
and laid siege to Rook’s Rest, a black stronghold near Dragonstone. When their lord saw their approach,
he sent a raven to Rhaenyra, begging for help. For days,
he watched his fields and villages burning, with no response from his queen. Until one day, a shadow
passed over the green army. Rhaenyra had sent not an army,
but her former mother-by-law, Rhaenys, and her dragon, Meleys. As her ancestor had done at the Field of Fire, Rhaenys gleefully began to incinerate
Ser Criston’s army. But Aegon had set a trap
and Rhaenys had flown right into it. As Rhaenys and Meleys blanketed
Ser Criston’s troops in dragon flame, two other dragons rose into the sky. Aemond on Vhagar and King Aegon himself
on the gleaming Sunfyre. To her credit, Rhaenys didn’t flee. Dragon fought dragons,
and a second sun blossomed in the sky. When the smoke cleared,
only Aemond and Vhagar stood uninjured. Sunfyre, the most magnificent dragon
in the world, had one of its wings
almost completely torn from its body. Trapped beneath Sunfyre
was the king himself, broken and burned so badly in places
that his armor had fused onto his flesh. His body survived, but his mind
was given over to the milk of the poppy. Meleys had been torn to shreds,
and her rider, Rhaenys, was a pile of ash. Panicked by the defeat,
Rhaenyra shipped her two youngest sons across the Narrow Sea for their protection,
only for her youngest to return days later, clinging to the neck
of his wounded and dying dragon. He and his brother had been set upon
by an enemy fleet just off Dragonstone. Defying his mother’s command,
Rhaenyra’s eldest son and heir, Jacaerys, mounted his dragon Vermax
and flew to rescue his other brother and punish the enemy fleet. But the foolish boy
let Vermax be hooked like a trout and dragged into the sea, where he soaked up
even more arrows than sea water. His brother disappeared over the horizon
or beneath the waves. No one could say for sure. With the loss of four dragons,
Rhaenyra’s only advantage was fading. Luckily for her, over the centuries, House Targaryen had spilled
more than blood on Dragonstone. She promised gold and title
to any of the Targaryen bastards who could tame
the six unclaimed dragons on the island. These bastards were called the dragonseeds. Though most were called supper. Now, perhaps the dragons were
eventually sated or bored. But four of them accepted riders,
and were enlisted in Rhaenyra’s cause. ROBERT: After Rook’s Rest, Aemond One-Eye
took command of the greens from his crippled and poppy-addled brother. Aemond was the blood of the dragon,
and dragons don’t cower behind city walls. He marched the king’s army north to take back Harrenhal
from Rhaenyra’s husband, Daemon. But when he and Criston Cole
reached the castle, they found the gates open
with Daemon and all his men gone. That night, they feasted their victory. Daemon had fled
rather than face their wrath. But Daemon was more snake than dragon. As Aemond marched north,
he’d flown Caraxes south, slithering past the green army
over the waters of the Gods Eye. One day, King’s Landing looked up
and saw two dragons circling their foul city. Daemon and Rhaenyra
had come for her throne, for the city was defenseless. Aemond had taken
the king’s army from the city, and worse, he’d taken his dragon, Vhagar. Seeing that resistance was hopeless,
the Small Council surrendered the city, the Queen Mother Alicent,
and the broken Queen Helaena. But not King Aegon. Somehow, despite his wounds and delirium,
he had vanished from the city. And so, Queen Rhaenyra climbed the steps
and seated herself on the Iron Throne. Legend has it that as she left the hall later,
blood trickled down her legs and hands, proving the Iron Throne had spurned her. Nonsense. It’s a chair made of steel blades. Rhaenyra had wanted it all her life
and had sacrificed two sons for it. She likely gripped the damn thing too tight. VISERYS: When Aemond realized
that his arrogance had cost him the capital, he mounted Vhagar in a black rage and rained fire onto every village and castle
he suspected of disloyalty. Abandoned by Aemond,
Ser Criston marched the royal army back to King’s Landing,
intent on recapturing the city himself. Instead, he was trapped and cut to pieces
by the riverlords who had sworn to support Rhaenyra’s claim. When a new army of green loyalists
marched up from the Reach and laid siege to the city of Tumbleton, Rhaenyra sent two of her dragonseeds
to lay waste to them. Instead, the dragonseeds
proved their bastard nature and betrayed her. They burned the city
and all the black forces garrisoned within. Lucky for her,
they didn’t turn towards King’s Landing but whored and drank in the ruins
with the greens, who were victorious and somewhat confused. OBERYN: Rhaenyra now mistrusted
all the dragonseeds, including the girl who rode
with her husband, Daemon, hunting Aemond in the Riverlands. She ordered the girl’s head be sent to her. But, there was a complication. As well as her dragon,
the girl had taken to riding Daemon. When Daemon received the queen’s order, he proclaimed to the queen’s words
and whore’s work. He sent the girl away at dawn, watching her and her dragon
vanish into the morning mists. Then Daemon sent a challenge
to his nephew, Aemond, and flew to Harrenhal alone to wait. Fourteen days later, a shadow,
blacker than any passing cloud, swept over Harrenhal. Vhagar had come at last, and on her back rode
One-Eyed Prince Aemond. He mocked Daemon for facing him alone,
“You have lived too long, uncle.” And Daemon replied,
“On that much, we agree.” Then the old prince climbed stiffly
onto the back of his dragon, Caraxes, but neglected to fasten the chains
that secured rider to saddle. The sun was close to setting when, as one,
the two dragons leapt into the sky. Daemon took Caraxes up swiftly
until they disappeared into a bank of clouds. Vhagar, older and slower,
ascended more gradually. Up and up Vhagar soared,
searching for Caraxes. Sudden as a thunderbolt,
a shrieking Caraxes dove upon Vhagar. Locked together,
the dragons tumbled toward the lake. Caraxes’ jaws closed upon Vhagar’s neck, but Vhagar raked open Caraxes’ belly
and her teeth ripped off a wing. The lake rushed up with terrible speed. Then Daemon Targaryen,
who had never fastened his riding chains, stood in his saddle. He leapt from his dragon to Aemond’s
and in his hand was Dark Sister, the Valyrian sword
of Aegon’s sister-queen, Visenya. As Aemond One-Eye looked up in terror,
Daemon ripped off his nephew’s helm and drove the sword down
into his one remaining eye so hard, the point came out the back
of the young prince’s throat. Half a heartbeat later,
the dragons struck the lake sending up a gout of water so high that it was said to have been
as tall as Harrenhal’s Great Tower. The lake boiled with dragon blood. And then was still. Daemon Targaryen
was nine and 40 at his death. Prince Aemond had only turned 20. Vhagar, the greatest
of the Targaryen dragons, had counted 181 years. Thus passed the last living creature
from the days of Aegon’s conquest. VISERYS: Back in King’s Landing,
Queen Rhaenyra didn’t have much time to grieve for her stupid husband. The mad former queen, Helaena,
flung herself from a balcony to be impaled upon the iron spikes
lining the moat of Maegor’s Holdfast. That night, the city rose in riot
against Rhaenyra, demanding justice for Queen Helaena
and her murdered son, among other foolish peasant fantasies. In the midst of this chaos,
a one-handed fool called the Shepherd began to rant against dragons. Not just the ones of the enemy,
but all dragons everywhere. As he pointed to the Dragonpit
above on the hill, he shouted, “There the demons dwell, this is their city. “If you would make it yours,
first you must destroy them.” A cry went up from ten thousand throats,
“Kill them!” There were four dragons housed
within the Dragonpit that night. By the time the first of the attackers
came pouring in, all four were roused, awake, and angry. Nobody knows how many men and women
died that night. Who cares? They all should have. Trapped within the pit,
the dragons could not fly. Instead, they fought
with horns, claws, teeth and fire. For every man who died, 10 more appeared,
shouting that the dragons must die. One by one, they did. Finally, the last remaining dragon
broke her chains, spread her wings, and flew straight up at the great dome,
trying to flee. Already weakened by dragon flame,
the dome cracked under the force of impact, and then tumbled down,
crushing dragon slayers and herself. JOFFREY: High atop the Red Keep, Queen Rhaenyra clutched
her two remaining sons to her as she watched the end of her family’s might. Too afraid of the peasants
to defend her dragons. At least her older son, Joffrey,
had a man’s spine. He stole his mother’s dragon, Syrax,
and tried to fly it to the Dragonpit to save his birthright. But the stupid beast didn’t understand and twisted beneath him,
fighting to be free of the little boy. Until it was. A queen is still a woman,
with all the weakness of that sex. Weeping for her lost son
more than her dragons, Rhaenyra abandoned the Iron Throne and sold her crown to buy passage
for her and her last son back to Dragonstone. Rhaenyra hoped to hatch more dragons
from the eggs in the castle. But when she landed,
the welcoming party slew her guards and marched her and her son at spearpoint
to the castle, to face a dead man and a dying dragon. “Sister!” King Aegon, Second of His Name,
called out to Rhaenyra. Rook’s Rest had left Aegon bent and twisted, his once-handsome face
puffy from milk of the poppy, with burn scars covering half his body. Rhaenyra, ever defiant, told her dear brother
that she had hoped he was dead. “After you,” Aegon answered. Then, Sunfyre bathed her in a blast of flame and devoured her in six bites
while her son watched, leaving the seventh and final bite,
her lower leg, for the Stranger. VISERYS: Rhaenyra was dead.
And King Aegon sat the Iron Throne again. But only for half a year. He was poisoned by his own men and replaced with the very boy
who had watched his mother devoured. SHIREEN: Rhaenyra’s last son
wed Aegon’s only daughter, the Dance of Dragons officially ended. Ash and burned men. All that was left of the Riverlands. Two scared children spouting oaths
they didn’t understand. All that was left
of the mighty House Targaryen. Ancient skulls and hatchlings
that grew no bigger than cats. All that was left of the dragons. HIGH SPARROW: The Father
reached his hand into the heavens and pulled down seven stars. And one by one, he set them
on the brow of Hugor of the Hill to make a glowing crown. The Maid brought him forth
a girl as supple as willow, with eyes like deep pools, and Hugor declared that he
would have her for his bride. S0, the Mother made her fertile and the Crone foretold that she would
bear the king four and 40 mighty sons. The Warrior gave strength to their arms whilst the Smith wrought for each
a suit of iron plates. But, sadly, the gods no longer
walk the Earth among us, and you can see what a mess
we’ve made of their creation since. Yet we have hope. The gods didn’t abandon us in silence
but gave us their holy words to guide us, collected in the oldest and holiest text
of the Faith of the Seven, The Seven-Pointed Star. Divided into seven books for the
seven aspects of God, in it we learn of the Father’s justice, the Mother’s mercy, the Maiden’s innocence, the Crone’s wisdom, the Warrior’s strength, the Smith’s labor, and the Stranger’s peace. It is a long book. Many never read it in its entirety,
even if they could. When the Andals first sailed for Westeros,
filled with divine fire, every warrior carved
a seven-pointed star into his body, for even that was easier than
carving its namesake into his mind. But one could perhaps argue
that it wasn’t the warriors, but the septons and septas, armed with
the holy text of The Seven-Pointed Star, who truly conquered Westeros. The First Men had no letters but
the runes they would scratch onto rocks. No gods but the faces
they would carve into trees. But then came our holy men
and women among them, bearing the very words
of the gods under their arms. Trees and rocks were no match
for The Seven-Pointed Star, and most of Westeros soon
turned to the Faith, and to its guardians,
their new Andal overlords. Whilst the Andals soon fractured
into warring kingdoms, the Faith remained whole and indivisible, bound together by The Seven-Pointed Star. When those kingdoms fell to Aegon and
his dragons thousands of years later, the Faith remained subject only to the seven
above and The Seven-Pointed Star below. Or so it was supposed to be. Too often, our High Septons
have lost their way, clouded by worldly wealth and power. No matter. We still have The Seven-Pointed Star. Men’s will and virtue may fail, but the words never do. As men bow to their lords,
and lords to their kings, so kings and queens must bow
before the Seven, who are one. The knees of the powerful work
the same as the knees of the weak, and were given to all for the same purpose. To bend before the gods, or break in the bending. HIGH SPARROW: Today, men know
the Seven as statues in the Septs, but in the old days,
the gods themselves walked among men. They crowned Hugor of the Hill
the first king of the Andal people, and promised him that his descendants
would rule great kingdoms in a foreign continent. When the time came, the Andals carved The Seven-Pointed Star
upon their bodies, and set sail for the strange land
across the Narrow Sea… Westeros. Whilst Andal warriors battled
the First Men for kingdoms, Andal septons battled for souls, and were received just as courteously. We don’t know how many
bold and pious men lost their lives, but adversity bred strength. Our purest and most righteous believers
took up the sword to defend and preserve the Faith
from its enemies. So was born the order of the Faith Militant. When Aegon the Conqueror
landed in Westeros, the High Septon locked himself in a Sept
for seven days and seven nights. Finally, the Crone lifted her golden lamp, and showed him the path ahead. The High Septon, himself,
would anoint and crown Aegon as Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. And the Faith Militant rallied behind Aegon in governing his newly united land. Yet Aegon and his sisters
never wholly accepted the Faith. The High Septon had conceded Aegon’s
marriages to his sisters as a relic of his Valyrian heritage, which would soon fade. But when Aegon’s heir
wed his daughter to his son, the Faith could brook
such abomination no longer. The High Septon led the denunciation
of the Targaryens. And all over Westeros,
the Faith Militant took up their swords against the dynasty and its supporters. The Faith Militant set upon
and punished the septon who had performed the ceremony. A few of the Faith Mi|itant’s more…
militant members, even scaled the walls of the castle, and would have slain the king and his family, had a knight of the Kingsguard
not intervened. Frightened, the king fled to Dragonstone, where he soon died of cramps. And so ascended the king’s younger brother,
Maegor the Cruel. His first act was to challenge
the Faith Militant to kill him, if they believed his rule to be ungodly. To the order’s eternal credit, they accepted. Ser Damon Morrigen
proposed a trial by seven, Ser Damon and six of the Faith Militant against the king and his six champions. lt was a contest in which
the kingdom itself was at stake, and the accounts and tales are many. But at the end of it, Maegor alone lived, proving that the throne was rightfully his. He mounted the black dragon, Balerion, and burned down the Sept in King’s Landing while the Faith Militant were inside
at morning prayers. The screams of the burning and dying men
were said to echo throughout the city. Though Maegor had won the trial by seven, he demanded the complete destruction
of the Faith Militant and the Faith, itself, if necessary. He made war upon the order
wherever he found it. Yet the Faith Militant would not surrender, raising armies of their own and turning Maegor’s own lords against him. The Father’s justice may not always be swift, but it is certain. One morning, Maegor was found dead
on the Iron Throne. No one knows how. Maegor’s cruelty died with him. His successor saw the wisdom
of a united crown and faith, and his Hand reached an accord
with the High Septon. As long as the Iron Throne
defended the Faith, the Faith would put aside its own swords and its condemnation of the Targaryens. Perhaps the High Septon felt
he had no course but compromise. Outlawed and hunted for years, the Faith Militant was but a shadow
of its former self. Without its own guardians, the Faith would have to rely
on corrupt worldly kings and their corrupt worldly courts. For thousands of years, the Faith Militant
had stood watch over the Faith, and then its sun set. Now, after years of war and destruction, of abomination and blasphemy, none can argue that we have been
walking through darkness. Perhaps the time has come
when the sun must rise again. VARYS: Valyria was young, and as the young do,
it sought to spread its seed. Its first daughter was Volantis, an outpost on the mighty Rhoyne River
at the frontier of the empire. There, the dragonlords raised
the famous Black Walls, seamless, fused dragon stone, 200 feet tall, and so thick that six four-horse chariots
can race along the battlement side by side, as they do each year to celebrate
the founding of the city. To this day, only those who can trace
their ancestry back to Old Valyria are allowed to dwell within the Black Walls. None are even permitted to set foot inside without an express invitation
of a scion of the Old Blood, meaning, of course,
the ancient and noble blood of foot soldiers. For the city’s first 100 years,
its only inhabitants were its garrison. But where soldiers go, vice follows. Taverns and brothels began to sprout up
outside the Black Walls, and merchant ships began to call, as well, bearing the favored trade
of the Summer Sea… Slaves. The east bank filled with homes, shops
and society. And so, the taverns and brothels moved
to the west bank, where foreigners, sellswords and pirates
erected their own shadow city of fornication, drunkenness and murder. In time, the west bank became
such a cesspit of crime and depravity, that the Volantines had no choice but to send
their slave soldiers across the Rhoyne to restore order
and some semblance of decency. Like all such missions,
they succeeded, they left, then they failed. When the Volantines grew weary of shipping
their soldiers across the Rhoyne every year, they built the famous Long Bridge of Volantis, strong enough to support the weight
of 1,000 elephants, and many more soldiers. The Long Bridge of Volantis stands today as the longest bridge in all the known world. The Volantine rulers intended the bridge to spread the civilization of the east bank
to the west. Instead, the depravity of the west bank
spread east. Shops, temples, taverns, inns and brothels
line the bridge, most three or four storeys tall, with each floor
overhanging the one beneath it. One can buy anything on the Long Bridge, or steal it, if one’s hands are quick enough. But if they’re not… Though, at least half the decor committed
no greater crime than displeasing a master. For in Volantis, there are five slaves
for every free man, a proportion matched only by the cities
of Slaver’s Bay. The Volantine masters mark their property
with facial tattoos, permanent and scarring,
which denote the vocation of the slave. Slave soldiers wear green tiger stripes
upon their faces. Slave whores are marked by tears
beneath one eye. The slaves that collect the dung of horses
and elephants are marked with flies. The drivers of the hathays, the carts pulled
by the small elephants of Volantis, are marked with wheels, and so on. A master may give his slave freedom, but no man can give a new face. ls it any wonder, then,
that the slaves and freed men have turned, in such great numbers,
to the priests who preach of a cleansing fire? The temple of the Lord of Light in Volantis
is said to be the greatest in all the world, larger even than the Great Sept of Baelor. All who serve within this mighty temple
are slaves, bought as children and trained
to become priests, temple prostitutes or warriors. And one could argue its adherents
outside the temple are slaves, as well, in mind, if not in body. Magic frees nobody, except its practitioner,
to do what he will with those who can’t, just as the Black Walls free the Old Blood
to see what they will without those they don’t. But one must wonder
how much longer such freedoms will endure, when across Essos, one hears the sound
of chains breaking, of slaves rising, of dragons roaring. Volantis may call itself
the first daughter of Valyria, but it is not the last. TYCHO: Most cities are built on stone. Braavos was built on ships. Or, more specifically, their cargo. Slaves who rose up
against their Valyrian captors and seized the helms of the convoy. Of all crimes, Valyria punished rebellion
most severely. The slaves faced not execution, but the Valyrian mines or labor camps
in the most remote and savage colonies if recaptured. And few corners of the world
can long remain hidden from dragonback. However, our histories claim
that a group of slave women prophesied the slaves would find shelter
in a distant lagoon, behind a wall of pine-clad hills
and sea stones, where the frequent fogs
would help hide the refugees from the eyes of dragon riders
passing overhead. And so it proved. Because they had risked their lives
in the name of freedom, the mothers and fathers of the new city vowed
that no man, woman or child in Braavos should ever be a slave. This is the first law of Braavos, engraved in stone on the arch
that spans the long canal. For over a hundred years,
Braavos hid itself from the eyes of the world, who called it the Secret City. Using a dye derived from a local snail, our captains stained their sails purple
to hide their stolen Valyrian ships. Our merchants carried false charts and lied
when questioned about their home port. Eventually, one sealord, our elected ruler,
decided enough time had passed, and initiated the unmasking of Braavos
to the world and to Valyria. Of course, it helped that the Iron Bank
made handsome restitution to the dragonlords for the stolen ships, whilst, of course, refusing to pay
for the value of the slaves themselves. The anniversary of the unmasking
is celebrated every year in Braavos with 10 days of feasting and masked revelry, a festival like none other in the known world, culminating at midnight on the 10th day,
when the Titan roars and tens of thousands of celebrants
remove their masks as one. Freed of the constraints of secrecy, Braavos quickly grew into the wealthiest
and most powerful of the free cities, and, one could argue, the most beautiful. From the sprawling Sea|ord’s Palace
with its menagerie of strange beasts and birds to the imposing Palace of Justice and the aqueduct we call the sweetwater river that bears fresh water from the mainland, Braavos is without rival in either engineering or elegance. The temples of Braavos are also famed
throughout the world and wondrous to behold. Descended from a hundred different peoples, the Braavosi honor
a hundred different gods. The Temple of the Moonsingers
is the foremost of these, being the faith of the slave women
whose prophecies lead our ancestors here. The Lord of Light has a great temple, as well, for his worshippers have grown
ever more numerous in the past hundred years. Yet, less numerous and even some forgotten faiths
still have temples deep in the heart of the city on the Isle of the Gods. But the beauty of Braavos
is not only in her buildings. Braavosi swordsmanship is renowned
throughout the world. Our bravos eschew the armor
and longswords of the Westerosi knights, preferring speed, agility, and slender blades. The greatest bravos call themselves
water dancers after the custom of dueling upon
the moon pool near the Sealord’s Palace. By tradition, the greatest of all the bravos
is the First Sword, who commands the personal guard
of the sealord and protects his person at all public events. Once chosen, sealords serve for life. lnevitably, there are always those
who wish to cut that life short to effect some change in policy. Though not even the First Swords
are the true guardians of Braavos. That honor goes to the Titan,
who protects the entrance to the harbor. With his proud head and fiery eyes
looming close to 400 feet above the sea, the Titan is a fortress of a kind
never seen before or since. His eyes are huge beacon fires lighting the way for returning ships
into the lagoon. Within his bronze body are halls
and chambers, murder holes and arrow slits. Enemy ships can be steered onto the rocks
by the watchmen inside the Titan. And stones and pots of burning pitch
can be dropped onto the decks of any that attempt to pass between
the Titan’s legs without leave. This has seldom been necessary, however. Not since the century of blood has any enemy been so rash as to attempt
to provoke the Titan’s wrath. Should an enemy break through
into the lagoon, however, he would face the walls of Braavos. Again, not of stone, like other cities,
but of ships. The arsenal of Braavos can build
one of our famous purple-hulled war galleys in a single day. All the vessels are constructed
following the same design, so that all the many parts can be prepared
in advance, and skilled ship builders work upon different
sections of the vessels simultaneously to hasten the labor. To organize such a feat of engineering
is unprecedented. One need only to look at the raucous,
confused construction in the shipyards
around the world to see the truth of this. Let us imagine that even the arsenal,
great as it is, failed us. An enemy who could defeat both the Titan
and our fleets would be strong indeed. But Braavos does not depend
only on statues and ships. We also have iron and gold. TYCHO: Who are the Faceless Men? It depends on who’s asking. To a penitent, they may be relief. To a victim, they may be vengeance. To a lord, they may be an incredible expense. And to the Iron Bank,
they may be just another asset. Nobody but the Faceless Men
know their origin, though the order is rumored to predate
the founding of Braavos. We know only that they reside in,
or are somehow aligned with, the House of Black and White, an odd and lonely building,
where few who enter ever leave. Some whisper that those weirwood doors
open not on a house, but onto the world of the dead, from whence the Faceless Men rise
when summoned. We can dismiss such foolishness as we do
the fishwives who spread it. The House of Black and White
is merely a temple consecrated to the Many-Faced God, and filled with statuary of his many faces, the Old Gods of Westeros, the Lord of Light,
the Black Goat, the Lion of Night,
the Weeping Lady, the Stranger. Perhaps now you understand
what is worshipped here. And along with them, other gods,
who none alive now recognize, brought here long ago by sailors,
who never came again. Unlike the priests of other religions, the servants here preach no sermons
and perform no ceremonies. As far as one can see, silence and solitude
form the whole of their worship, as well as collecting the occasional devotee. If one wants to engage a Faceless Man, one visits the House of Black and White,
and pays the price. As for what that may be,
those who have paid it, rarely speak of it. For, make no mistake, from the moment the Faceless Men
accept your offer, the man you named is dead,
though he doesn’t know it. Perhaps not that day, perhaps not that year, but soon and inevitably. Many would say you are as much his murderer
as if you’d swung the axe yourself. Just as many would say that’s the point. BOLTON: Brandon the Builder,
founder of House Stark, raised Winterfell with giants
over 8,000 years ago. Or so nursemaids tell all the children
of the North. The children nod, wide-eyed,
unaware of the lesson forced on them, that if even giants obeyed a Stark, so, too, should they. But like every other castle, Winterfell was built in pieces,
over thousands of years. The First Men settled there because of the hot springs
that bubbled through the ground. The water and the heat helped them survive
the Northern winters, and they built defenses to keep it
for themselves. Nobody raised the castle all at once. Probably nobody meant to raise a castle at all. In those days, the Starks were not
the greatest house in the North, and Winterfell was not the greatest castle. Barrowton was the oldest,
dating to the first king. And the Starks fought the Barrow Kings
for 1,000 years. Greywater Watch was like
the crannogmen themselves, the strangest. Only marriage subdued its Marsh Kings. But the greatest rival to Winterfell
was always the Dreadfort and my ancestors,
the Red Kings of House Bolton. If tales can be believed, we fought from the Long Night
until the Andals came. Because of us, Winterfell raised its first walls. When we took and burnt the castle anyway, Winterfell built more keeps, more walls,
more guard towers. They expanded the granaries
and larders to survive our sieges. They tended the godswood
to win favor with the Old Gods against us. As the castle grew, more farmers and villagers
flocked, every winter, from across the North to huddle under its walls, raising the winter town. In the spring, these villagers would
find themselves marching in the Stark armies to fight against us. The greatness of Winterfell
is as much our doing as the Starks‘. But in the end, neither its stone walls, nor its tall keeps and iron gates
could save Winterfell. At its height it could have lasted a year
under heavy siege. But a handful of ironborns
seized it in the night, while its lord, the King in the North
was playing in the South. My dagger ended his reign, and now House Bolton holds
the castle of our ancient enemies. The direwolf no longer flies
from the battlements above me, nor guards the doors
and cornices of Winterfell against me. Below me, miles of long-dead Starks
fade into darkness and obscurity, until even their faces are lost. Some Northerners whisper that they wait
for the day their house will rise again. They will wait forever. ALLISER: Each brother of the Night’s Watch
swears a sacred oath to protect the realms of men. That doesn’t mean pissing about, waiting for the cold
to finally put an end to you. It means bleeding. It means fighting. lt means going beyond the Wall and hunting
down those who mean harm to the realm. S0, how do you get a thousand rapists
and thieves to fight together? To bleed together? That’s the burden of the Lord Commander. He keeps the builders building, the rangers
ranging, and the stewards stewarding. Or else it all falls apart. Each Lord Commander is chosen
from and by his fellow brothers, and he serves for life. A long time ago, you may have had men
from Queensgate and Long Barrow and the other 16 castles of the Wall
come to Castle Black for an election. These days, you’d be lucky
to scrape a few dozen from Eastwatch and the Shadow Tower, or however many they can spare,
who cast votes in their stead. All the same, the brothers are allowed to name
whomever they think worthy of the title. Then we vote
until one man receives a majority, however long it takes. Some elections have lasted less than an hour. Some have lasted weeks. One even lasted two years. MaesterAemon has said
there have been 997 Lord Commanders since the Night’s Watch was founded. Back then, we had true soldiers, men of honor and strength. Now, look who mans the Wall. Bastards, peasants
who stole a sheep to bugger, and fat, little nobles who weren’t
worthy of their lord father’s land. But the Lord Commander
must find a place for them all, and turn these walking piles of horse dung into soldiers of the Night’s Watch. Though we haven’t always been
so lucky to have such men to lead us. We’ve had cowards and fools, as well. Our tyrants and our madmen. Runcel Hightower tried to bequeath
the Watch to his bastard. Rodrik Flint thought
to make himself king-beyond-the-Wall. Tristan Mudd, Mad Marq Rankenfell,
Robin Hill… Each nearly destroyed us
with their foolishness. Six hundred years ago, the commanders
at Snowgate and the Nightfort even went to war against each other. The simpering Lord Commander asked
them politely to lay aside their quarrel, and, incredibly, they did. Because theyjoined forces to murder him. The Stark in Winterfell had to intervene and take both their heads
to save the Night’s Watch. Now we’ve got more mouths than we can feed, a Southern king in our castle, and cells full of wildlings. And no Lord Commander, since the last was betrayed by his own men. We need a new leader. A man respected enough to hold
the Watch together in this dark hour. A leader strong enough to make sure that the Night’s Watch
survives the coming winter, no matter the cost. BARRISTAN:
Barristan the Bold, they call me to my face. I know what they say behind my back. Barristan the Old. Well, it’s true. I am old. With hair as white as all the winters I’ve seen. The older a man grows,
the less sleep he needs. These days, I barely sleep at all. When darkness falls over this strange city, I find myself visited by the faces
of the kings I have served, the faces of those I swore to protect, the faces of those I failed. All I ever wanted was to live a life of honor, defending a king worthy of service. During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, I sought out Maelys the Monstrous, last of the Blackfyre pretenders
who had started this whole war. Maelys believed that his Targaryen blood
gave him a claim to the Iron Throne. I made sure his blood claimed nothing more
than the dirt around his corpse. To show his gratitude,
the king elevated me to his Kingsguard. lt was the proudest moment of my life. But that king died. And |wasn’t With him. Not that I could have saved him ifl had been, but Still. I vowed to do better with his son, the young Prince Aerys. For 20 years, his reign
was peaceful and prosperous. Aerys was well-loved by his subjects
and respected by his lords. But as years went on, Aerys‘ temper soured. He became obsessed with dragons and fire. And the swords of the
Kingsguard couldn’t defend him from the enemies he saw
lurking in every shadow. My king went mad. But there was hope. His son and heir. Prince Rhaegar was everything
a kingdom could hope for in a ruler. He was strong but gentle, wise and cautious, and a good friend. No matter the wounds
Aerys dug into the realm, we had faith that his son
would sew it back together again when he ascended the throne. Then came Lord Whent’s
tourney at Harrenhal, the largest ever in Westeros. I unhorsed every man against me
until only Prince Rhaegar remained. We each set our feet in our saddles
and lowered our lances, and charged. And I fell. Muddy and bruised, I then watched
Rhaegar present Lyanna Stark with a victor’s crown of roses, though she was betrothed
to Robert Baratheon, and Rhaegar himself
was married to Elia Martell. We all know what happened after. If I’d been a bit quicker with my lance,
if I’d chosen a faster horse, perhaps I could have spared the kingdom
from the destruction that came after. Or if I’d thought to warn
Brandon Stark against his rashness. He came to King’s Landing himself,
demanding Rhaegar return his sister. Poor fool. If he’d only known
the depth of Aerys‘ madness, he wouldn’t have dared provoke him. Aerys ordered Brandon imprisoned,
and I could do nothing but obey. When Brandon’s father, Lord Rickard Stark,
came to King’s Landing to beg for his son, Aerys burned him alive. But I could do nothing but watch. I had sworn a vow to a mad king, and was honor-bound to obey him, even at the cost of my soul. Ravens soon arrived
with dark news for the king. The Vale was in open revolt. Demanding Lyanna Stark’s return, Robert Baratheon was smashing
any army that dared face him. Eddard Stark, Brandon’s younger brother, was marching the whole
of the north down the Neck and had taken Catelyn Tully,
Brandon’s betrothed, for his own, thus winning the support of the Riverlands. The king sent ravens to
Casterly Rock to beg his former Hand, Tywin Lannister, for help. And no ravens returned. A plan was devised. Prince Rhaegarwould
personally lead the royal forces, now reinforced with 10,000 Dornishmen,
north to face Robert. Of the Kingsguard, Lewyn Martell
and I would ride with the prince. Before we left, the prince confided in me
that when he returned from this battle, there would be a great many changes in court. Despite my vows to the king, I confess I was excited. On the march to face Robert’s army,
we were sure we’d win. We had superior numbers
and we had Prince Rhaegar. His presence lifted the spirits of our men,
and he looked every inch the king he was destined to become. But at the Trident,
the gods played a cruel joke. Robert proved the Baratheon words
as his army smashed through our lines. Lewyn Martell was killed. I fell in combat, badly wounded, and could do nothing but watch
as Robert’s warhammer ended Rhaegar’s glorious
reign before it began. And the kingdom that would never be washed away down the Trident
with his life’s blood. But Robert spared me, insisting his personal maester
tend to my wounds out of respect. But respect for what? A Kingsguard shouldn’t survive one king,
let alone two, or one who should’ve been. I sworn an oath to House Targaryen,
and i failed them. All that’s left of their
fire is a single ember halfway across the world, surrounded by darkness. If the gods were good, i would still be young, in the fullness of strength. But whatever the cost, I will not let this ember go out. This time, i will not fail. ELLARIA: Before the Seven Kingdoms, before the Iron Throne, there was Dorne. Twelve thousand years ago, the First Men crossed the land bridge
from Essos to here. Of course, they were men,
so they soon broke it. Then, while their cousins to the north
built kingdoms, the Dornish squabbled overland,
water and wives, for centuries, until Nymeria, a warrior princess in Essos. She led a fleet of 10,000 ships
across the Narrow Sea to Dorne. Almost all of the petty lords made it clear
that she wasn’t welcome. All, but one, Mors of House Martell. He saw in her a strength to match any man, including his rivals. After she accepted his marriage offer, she set fire to her ships. For 50 leagues, the coast was bright as day. And in the burning light,
Princess Nymeria named Mors Martell the Prince of Dorne, in the style of her people. Dorne would be her home or her grave. For many years, Nymeria and Mors
waged war against all rivals, the Jordaynes, Blackmonts, Qorgyles, and even the mighty House Yronwood. They sent no fewer than six self-styled kings
to the Wall in golden chains. After Mors fell in battle, Nymeria took
command of his armies, and united Dome, in two years. She ruled for 27 more,
and though she married again, those husbands were little more
than councilors and consorts. Dorne was Nymeria, and Nymeria was Dorne. She survived a dozen attempts on her life, put down two rebellions,
and threw back two invasions. And when, at last, she died,
her eldest child succeeded her, her daughter, not her son. And Dorne followed her because Nymeria had proven
that women were equal to men, if not better. Centuries later, Aegon Targaryen sought to unite Westeros,
as Nymeria had Dorne. The other six kingdoms fell quickly
before his dragons and ambition. When his sister-wife, Rhaenys, flew her dragon south,
and demand our surrender, as well, Princess Meria Martell warned, “| will not fight you, nor will I kneel to you. “Dorne has no king. Tell your brother that.” Rhaenys threatened that the next time the Targaryens would come
with fire and blood. Meria replied, “You may burn us, my lady, “but you will not bend us, break us,
or make us bow. “This is Dorne. “You are not wanted here.
Return at your peril.” Rhaenys did, and she died. Her dragon died. All her soldiers died. Eventually, her brother, the conqueror,
conceded that what Nymeria had done he could not undo. Generations later, another foolish Targaryen invaded Dorne. He died, as well. Eventually, we did join the Seven Kingdoms, but when we wanted, and on our terms. If dragons could not conquer us, why should we fear lions? “Unbowed, unbent, unbroken,” the words of House Martell, the words of Dorne. Men may forget, but women always remember. When we were divided, Nymeria united us. When we were invaded, Meria defended us. Now Dorne has been humiliated,
its prince, murdered. Who will rise to avenge us? DAARIO: People love blood… when it’s not their own. But tavern brawls are boring, and wars never have good seating. Thus, the famed fighting pits of Meereen
opened shortly after the city’s own founding. I heard that originally,
the combats were a blood sacrifice to the gods of Ghis,
the empire that founded Meereen. Some still believe they are. But the Ghiscari Empire died a long time ago
and their gods went with them. And yet, the pits remained open. Filling the city’s purse with gold
from the ends of the earth. I suppose the fighting pits
are a blood sacrifice, after all. Only the gods changed. In the pits, slaves fought each other
to the death for fame and glory, and gold for their masters. A lot of gold. Enough for the masters
to invest in rigorous training. Slaves were taught to fight
like Dothraki screamers, bearded priests of Norvos, lronborn reavers, Westerosi knights, Qohorik hunters and Lysene pirates. Whatever would excite a crowd. After all, everyone wants to know
who is the best. And, of course, who isn’t. For the crowds don’t come only to see
men fight well. I’ve seen the masters release tigers, lions, and other exotic beasts into the arena
to chase less costly slaves. Barely trained, if at all. A whore once told me of an amusement
in one of the less prestigious pits. One boy was rolled in honey,
one in blood, and one in rotting fish. And then a bear was unleashed, and the crowd wagered on
which boy the bear would eat first. I never heard who won. But then again, it was obvious. The masters. Did such stories worry me? Of course not. I could fight. And for a good fighter,
life was luxurious. Thousands of people chanted his name
when he stepped into the pits. He would eat the choicest meats,
drink the finest wines, and sleep on exotic furs. Often not alone. Women would fling themselves at him
or sneak into his chambers to wait for him after a fight. Foreign princesses, priestesses, and even the wives
and wayward daughters of masters. And he never had to fear punishment, for a great fighter
could be worth 300,000 honors. Another wife was always cheaper. And when this renowned fighter finally fell, for all fighters will, in time, his name would be inscribed
into the Gates of Fate among the other valiant dead. I remember once trying to count the names, but the gates opened before I finished, and another fight began. VARYS: Westeros has mighty rivers, but none of them compare to the Rhoyne. lt is said that there is no stream or puddle in
western Essos but drains to Mother Rhoyne. No doubt an exaggeration, until one sees the river. At its widest, a man in the center
can’t see ashore to either side. The greatest of Mother Rhoyne’s
children were the Rhoynar, a civilization as ancient
and grand as Old Ghis. Fishers, traders, scholars,
workers of wood, stone and metal, the Rhoynar raised their elegant cities
from the head waters of the Rhoyne down to her mouth,
each lovelier than the last. For many centuries,
the Rhoynar lived in relative peace. When invaders swept down from the hills,
the Rhoynar, women and men, would don silver-scaled armor,
fish-head helms, tall spears and turtle-shell shields. If the enemy did not laugh themselves away,
it was said that Mother Rhoyne would whisper the enemy’s
secrets to her children and the Rhoynish wizards could raise
watery walls to drown their foes. Whatever magic the Rhoynar
may have had, it wasn’t enough. When Valyrian colonists first arrived,
the Rhoynar embraced them, for all men were welcome to share
the bounty of Mother Rhoyne. Perhaps a water people should
have been more cautious of strangers who exalted fire and blood. Legend has it that, one day,
the Valyrians netted and butchered one of the giant turtles
the Rhoynar held sacred. As a result,
thousands were killed or enslaved, cities and towns were burned,
drowned and rebuilt. In these wars, the Valyrians emerged
as victorious more often than not. The princes of the Rhoynish cities, fiercely
proud of their independence, fought alone whilst the Valyrian
colonies aided one another. Eventually the Rhoynish princes ceased their
squabbling and united behind Prince Garin, who led the largest army Essos had ever
seen, against 100,000 Valyrian colonists, 100 war elephants, and three dragonlords. Thousands burned. But thousands more sheltered
in the shallows of the river, whilst the Rhoynish wizards raised enormous
water spouts against the foe’s dragons. Rhoynish archers brought
down two of the dragons, whilst the third fled, wounded. And thereafter, the Rhoynar
named Garin “The Great.” But Mother Valyria proved just as caring
as Mother Rhoyne. When Garin the Great
marched his army against Volantis, 300 Valyrian dragons descended from the sky. Tens of thousands burned
whilst others rushed into the river. But the fires burned so hot that
the water boiled and turned to steam. Garin the Great was captured alive and made to watch as Valyrians
butchered every last man, so many that their blood turned the
great harbor of Volantis red as far as the eye could see. Then they forced Garin to watch
as they marched on his own city and enslaved all the women
and children his army had left behind. The singers claim that
Prince Garin called out Mother Rhoyne to curse the Valyrians. And she in turn flooded the city
with foul waters and a damp fog that caused the skin
of the Valyrians to harden and crack and thus was born greyscale. Fearing a similar fate,
another Rhoynish ruler, Princess Nymeria, led her own people into every ship,
skiff and raft they had and fled Essos. Eventually, after much hardship,
they landed in sun-swept and bone-dry Dorne. But we all know that tale. Now Valyria has followed
the Rhoynar out of this world, and her daughters have grown into free cities, wealthy and powerful and proud. Still, Mother Rhoyne flows on,
past ancient ruins and bustling harbors, sweeping all man’s kingdoms to the sea. JAQEN: A young man walks beside
a girl across a flowered field. Spring has corne, and this girl is his Iife. He prays. A child climbs a tree
to watch the sun set over the fields. Summer is ending, and the harvest is Iife for his village. He prays. A hunter tracks a boar through the woods. Winter is coming, and this boar is Iife for his family. He prays. But to whom do they pray? The world has as many answers
as there are men to answer. But walk far enough, climb high enough, hunt long enough, and a man shall find only one, one god, with many faces. In the Faith of the Seven, he is the stranger who guides men
from this Iife to the next. Few seek his favor, or, at Ieast, few realize that they do. In the north of Westeros, he is one of the nameless Old Gods, staring out from the
weirwood trees and the snow. In the Iron Islands, he is the Drowned God, calling men down to his watery hole. What is dead may never die,
but rises again harder and stronger. In the far east, he is the Lion of Night, who fathered the wor|d’s first emperor
on the Maiden-Made-of-Light, and whose wrath nearly ended the world. In Volantis, he is the Lord of Light, whose followers feed men to the flames
to beg his favor. In Lys, he is the Weeping Lady, who sheds her tears for the living soon to die. In Qohor, he is the Black Goat, and he feeds on blood offerings every day. On holy days, he is offered
condemned criminals. And in times of great crisis, he may even be offered
the nobles‘ children of the city to beg his protection. Does he accept their gift? Well, the city still stands. For the poor, he is the Hooded Wayfarer. For soldiers, he is Bakkalon, the Pale Child. For sailors, he is the
Moon-Pale Maiden and the Merling King. In the House of Black and White, however, he is all of them, and none of them. He is the Many-Faced God. And wherever a man turns, there he is. Men come from every
corner of the world to know him, to beg his favor and seek his gift for themselves,
if their Iife has grown too hard, or for others, who are making it s0. lt is all the same to the Many-Faced God. “Valar Dohaeris.” All men must serve him, beggars and kings. “Valar Morghulis.” All men must die, good and evil. Men worship as they will,
but at the end of every road stands the Many-Faced God, waiting. QYBURN: Few afflictions are
more feared than greyscale, and far past the point of reason. A legend calls it Prince Garin’s Curse, after an ancient eastern prince,
whom the Valyrians hung in a cage and forced to watch the
immolation of his city and people. As his city burned under dragon flame,
this prince called on his god for vengeance, and a thick fog of foul
humors rose from the ruin to smother the Valyrians with greyscale. But if diseases could be
called down by the vengeful, we’d have no health in the world. More likely, the disease
predates the Valyrians entirely, confined to some remote region of Essos,
and only spread throughout the world once the Valyrians linked the
continent with roads and dragons. The disease begins as a rash. The afflicted flesh stiffens,
calcifies, and cracks, and assumes the disease’s nominal hue. Victims are graciously spared pain, as the disease dulls sensation
in the infected limbs. But the disease is insidious, and slowly it creeps over the skin
and into the organs. Once the infection reaches the brain,
feral madness replaces humanity, and the transformation
to a stone man is complete. There is no consensus on treatment. Some maesters advocate
mustard poultices, vinegar rinses, and scalding hot baths. Others claim only three cures,
axe, sword, and cleaver. Hacking off afflicted parts does
sometimes stop the spread of the disease, but not always. Many a man has sacrificed an arm or foot, only to find the other going grey. Those who have been
miraculously cured of greyscale are few, and usually were subjected
to so many treatments, that isolating the
responsible cure is impossible. Besides, few maesters, priests, or healers
have the courage for such experiments as would prove a cure. Greyscale is highly contagious, being known to spread from even
the slightest contact with an infected person. Hence the current occupation
of Valyria by the stone men, exiled from their homelands
at the first sign of the disease. What they do there with
their final months or even years, for greyscale is a slow killer, no one knows. No one wants to find out. MISSANDEI:
The Great Masters of Meereen… As if calling themselves such
could make them so. Thousands of years ago,
during the height of the Ghiscari Empire, Meereen was second only to Old Ghis
in wealth and glory, a paradise by the sea, if one didn’t mind the constant clinking
of chains and cracking whips. Slaves built Meereen, and on their backs the city rested like a litter. Then came the dragons of Valyria. The masters of Old Ghis would not bow,
so they burned. The Valyrians tore down their walls,
burned their pyramids to ash, and sewed their fields with salt and skulls. An old slave woman once told me that the Valyrians intended
to break the chains of the Ghiscari slaves, absorbing them into the Valyrian Freehold,
where every man held a vote. But the Great Masters of Meereen received
their new overlords in the Great Temple, plying them with gold, wine, and all the wealth
that slavery had brought them. And the Valyrians, instead,
took up the whip themselves. I do not believe it. As their empire expanded, the Valyrians needed more and more bodies
to feed their mines and colonies, where no wage could ever tempt a free man. The Great Masters merely accommodated
their new customers, staying rich as the Ghiscari Empire crumbled. After the Doom fell on Valyria,
the Great Masters worried for their fortunes. By this time, the Valyrians were their greatest providers
and purchasers of slaves. Then the Dothraki Horselords swept
out of the plains of Essos, and proved to be as fond of slaving
as the dragonlords before them. The Great Masters grew richer still. For the first time in its history, the Great Masters, alone, ruled Meereen, and chaos ruled the rest of the world. The fighting pits swallowed men,
who, in previous centuries, would have filled the ranks
of the Valyrian armies. Without these soldiers to maintain order,
the wealthy had to buy their own, which the Good Masters of Astapor
were more than willing to sell. If the buyer’s nerves still needed calming, the Wise Masters of Yunkai could sell him…
further release. The Great Masters, the Good Masters, the Wise Masters… Yet none were so great, good or wise, that they recognized our queen
for what she was. Her ancestors had destroyed them,
then become them. Perhaps, they assumed
she would bend as easily. But our queen does not bend. She breaks.

Randy Schultz

Related Posts

5 thoughts on “Game of Thrones – Histories and Lore – Season 5 Complete – ENG and TR Subtitles

  1. Cherrl Lynn says:

    I turned my volumn all the way up and could barely hear it

  2. old Nan says:

    This is the best one in my opinion.

  3. Firespur says:

    I want that book

  4. Hina Shah says:

    This is more interesting than the TV show.

  5. Scottlet says:

    I love how fitting it was to have catelyn stark talk about the blood of a child,very fitting

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *