Ah, Volantis.

Essos was full of cities, each one more rich than the last, always expanding east and never expanding west — though that, at least, was something he was glad for. It meant that, when they took the throne, they would never have to worry about the many people they had already angered.

The Golden Company's presence did not aid them in the slightest, for the men were many and their taste for wine bigger than their stomach. One could only live around people who sold their swords for a high price without finding them arrogant.

Jon did not worry much about it, in the very end, because they would soon depart for Westeros.

It had been years since he had set foot on that land. Years since he had ever tasted a Dornish Red, years since he saw a Stag, a Wolf or a Lion, years since he partook in tourneys that would always end with Ser Arthur Dayne being the champion at the very end, or his dear prince Rhaegar, who was no longer with him.

But Aegon was, and Jon had never hesitated to call the young boy as his own son. He was the prince's father, for all that mattered, even though he did not share the blood of dragon like Young Griff did.

Wine ran through his veins, but not enough to drown the sorrow of his actions before he abandoned all that had been once dear to him. People he had disappointed, the king and the prince he had failed.

What good was a man who could not even look at the face of the prince he supported without reminding himself of his failures?

Jon grasped at his cup, bringing it to his lips once more and drowning the cheap alcohol that could never hope to mend the broken figments of an old man's heart. He did not care for the way you stared at him with judgement, much less the way you were still waiting for him to complete the story he had been telling you about a battle he once fought.

He was drunk, he realized as much when a headache started to form, and he huffed a little when the noises of the tavern got louder.

"Where was I, again...?"