A CITY THAT SLEEPS

ESSOS - MEEREEN

Another glow started outside the walls of Meereen. A specialist team of Unsullied piled and burned the bodies. Fear was rampant. Those that were ill hid in the walls of their homes or in the many dark corners of the cavernous city. The young, old and infirm died quickly. Before the week closed no amount of incense could hide the scent of death that hovered over the city.

Daenerys, queen of Meereen and descendent of the dragon empire, folded her arms crossly, finding her path blocked by one of her advisors. "Move," she commanded, firmly.

Jorah lounged backwards, leaning against the ugly doors that kept the rest of the world at bay. He was supported, silently, by the ever watchful eyes of Missandei and Tyrion.

"If you do not move," she continued, "I will have you removed."

By whom, Jorah was curious. There was not a single person in the room that wanted to open that door for the queen. At the present, he was speaking for them all when he replied defiantly.

The silver queen took several measured steps toward Jorah and the door. "I will move you myself," she whispered.

Jorah wasn't sure if that was meant to deter or encourage his behaviour. He looked up at her with clear blue eyes and a complexion that missed the sun. "The city will turn on you if you walk out those doors," Jorah warned steadily. "Listen... Can you hear them screaming? They're looking for a target to direct their anger toward. You cannot walk the streets, my queen. You must do as the Masters do."

"Hide..." she sneered, curling the edge of her lip.

Tyrion edged in, hands outstretched as though trying to quiet two wild creatures. "It started on the docks. A pirate merchant pulled in with something more than stolen wine and women in his hold. A stone man from the ruins of Valyria escaped. One of the Unsullied captured him in the fish markets tearing through the raw catch. They killed him but not after they heard his story."

The queen's left eyebrow had a life of its own, arcing up though her focus remained firmly on Ser Mormont. "And what story is that?"

"That the fires of Valyria are heating up, your grace. There was smoke seen coming from several of the old volcanic cones. The islands shake."

She shrugged. "I don't see what that has to do with me walking among my people."

"They're rats, abandoning a sinking ship. If Valyria becomes unstable again more infected refugees will hit these shores. It's the beginning of a disaster – not the end."

"The same could be said of all the cities along the coast."

"Exactly," Tyrion agreed, taking another cautious step forward. "Very soon everyone is going to lose control of this part of the world – including the slavers. It's happened before. I'm working my way through the records in the great temple."

"You agree that we should leave?" Daenerys asked. She was still looking at Jorah, searching his face for the truth. He wanted her to leave this place, she could tell. He'd been saying so since the moment she'd set foot in it.

Tyrion took a moment before he finally nodded. "We may have no choice. If we wait this out, it could take years, you may have no army left to conquer the seven kingdoms. You have to ask yourself, what do you want to be queen of?"

Daenerys' breathing was steady but her heart raced. She wanted to be a mother to the people of Meereen and the other cities that she'd freed. They were her charge – she was their queen but -

But.

She could see the answer as plainly in Jorah's eyes as her own. She wanted to be queen of the seven kingdoms. To sit on the iron throne and rule where her ancestors had. Even now the voices of her dreams circled her daylight hours. She was a dragon, not a mother. Fire and Blood. She could no more linger in a city at the edge of the world than an Iron Born plant crops and wait for the rains.

Daenerys stepped back from the door and turned to Tyrion. "Have the crows returned?"

He let out a small sigh of relief. "I'll go check." When he was sure that Daenerys had changed her mind about taking a wander through the city, Tyrion headed to tower.

The cages were pressed bar to bar, lining the interior of the stone tower in a screeching, filthy design. There were many windows, all narrow and tall looking over the interior of the city rather than the water. Several of the ravens pecked at the bars, waiting for their chance to soar in the air again. Others sulked in the corners of their prison, happy to be locked away from the other creatures that owned the skies.

Tyrion found Varys by one of the windows, sitting at a low, simple table. He was working his way through an seemingly infinite volume of messages that poured in from the world. It was like trying to keep tabs on the droplets in a stream.

"You were always fond of your birds," Tyrion started, steering well clear of the cages. "Do they whisper anything interesting today?"

"I whisper to them and they whisper back," he replied, setting another strip of paper down. "Most of this is a formality; notifications, invitations, declarations of peace and war. Needless to say, it is neither interesting nor enlightening."

"And what do you whisper to the birds?"

"Enough," Varys replied.

Cryptic as usual, thought Tyrion. It didn't matter what edge of the world he found himself in, some things never changed. "Oh – you have a visitor." Tyrion pointed to the window beside where a particularly ragged bird had made a poor landing. It was missing a toe and most of its good feathers. There was a silver sheen to its plumage.

Varys had to scoop the bird off the sill and set it on the table so that he could untie the note strapped around its ankle. As soon as he did, he fed the creature and laid it in a nearby cage. He didn't bother closing the cage door – the creature had no desire to leave.

"Ah – are one of these whispers finally interesting?" Tyrion asked, when Varys was rendered speechless. For several minutes Varys couldn't find the words. Tyrion thought that must have been a first.

"It's – from The Wall," Varys replied, passing the message to Tyrion, who read it and baulked.

"Are we meant to take this kind of thing-"

"Seriously?" Varys helped him find the word. "The seal is good. Enough correspondence from that ugly keep has passed my desk to know it when I see it. Snow is the Lord Commander and this is written in his hand. If we have one – every other outpost in the world will have a copy."

"Walking dead..." Tyrion lifted his gaze slowly, seeing how Varys would wear the words. He wore them true. "Really?"

"There are stranger things in this world, my friend, than dead that never die."

"My ah – history is a little hazy but this all sounds like something the Starks use to go on about an awful lot."

"You'd be right, my friend."

And that was all he said. Varys could face the wrath of the gods with a wry smile and polite bow.

Interesting whispers from The Wall were not the only items of concern. Varys was embroiled in a more pressing game with a distant shore. He held the final message to his nose – breathing in the citrus scent woven into the paper. There was no mistaking a message from Dorne. Even the finely printed text held an air of elegance that filled Varys mind with the memories of their wandering gardens, summer palaces and cities rising from the barren deserts. He could feel the dust lift off the streets and hear the ever-present rush of water coursing through copper pipes on every corner. Civilisation was art to a Dornish lord.

"There are no more screams," Daenerys observed. The crowds had shied away from the streets. The dead smouldered beyond the gates and sparse patrols of Unsullied patrolled the length of the wall.

"The infected have started to turn," Jorah replied solemnly. He fought the urge to inspect his forearm. The skin there was tender, paler than the rest. "Your army is safe – so far. The Dothraki and Second Sons haven't reported any losses aside from the usual brawls. We could leave with a day's notice and-"

"What of Daario?" she cut him off softly. "If I leave here, how will he find me?"

She wasn't a fool so Jorah didn't bother pointing out the obvious – that Daario was probably dead or soon to be so. "If he escapes," he replied, "he will have no trouble finding you, my queen. News of the silver dragon travels every corner of the world. He'll find you." Despite Jorah's obvious reasons to feel the contrary, he didn't wish Daario any particular ill. "You miss him, as you should."

Daenerys changed the subject. "Can I trust Varys?"

Jorah, who had been seated at the desk, took two full glass of wine and stood up, walking one of them over to her. His outstretched hand lingered until she sighed and relieved him of the goblet. "You can always trust Varys to be true to his goals."

"And those are?"

"Peace for the realm." It was said without the slightest cynicism.

"Truly?"

"Truly," Jorah assured her. "He is – an oddity. Varys is an idealist who serves the realm and any party that he thinks will aid in this cause. You will never own a man like him so do not try to. If his loyalty wavers from us then we have taken an miss turn, your grace. At present, he believes the future of a peaceful realm can only be achieved with the old blood of Valyria seated on the throne, uniting the seven kingdoms."

"This is the man that you wrote to – all those years..."

There was a silence between them. Hurt lingered in the air but it lessened the more Daenerys learned of Varys. She couldn't deny that Jorah's betrayal might very well have saved her life. The irony confused her. Jorah had visibly flinched at her words, withdrawing a few steps from her.

"It is. Your grace, the Spider has been shadowing you since you were a child."

"I don't know how I feel about that," she admitted, reclaiming the steps he'd taken. "A man like him has a game – I want to know what it is."

Jorah bowed. "Yes, your grace."

Varys felt the bear's presence in the room long before he picked his outline from the stone and shadows. There was something familiar in those eyes. They were cold, stained with ice bled from the sky, eyes that held a storm's fury. They were a mirror of Jeor Mormont's.

"I've seen eyes like yours before, young prince."

Jorah, now with his broadsword strapped around his waist where it belonged, shifted his weight. Metal and leather strained around him. He said nothing.

"Yes, it'd be near fifteen years now." Varys' room was small, simple and bare of most things. The moonlight was unfiltered, rushing in with shards of white that cut through the dark. Varys sat in one such beam, his bald head and silk robes rendering him more of a spirit than a man. "Though you may not like to admit such things, you and your father have a great deal in common. A fondness for dragons, I dare say."

"Had," Jorah corrected him. "My father is dead."

"A terrible business," Varys agreed.

"Killed by his own men at the edge of the world."

"One must be careful with the barest framework of truth."

"His men mutinied, what more is there to say?" The Mormont's were all about honour. His father would not have been at The Wall among criminals and runaways if not for him. He couldn't help but feel that it was his own betrayal that killed his father.

Varys tilted his head in thought and turned to the Mormont lurking in the shadow. "I know why your father died."

Jorah shifted. He'd come to learn Varys secrets – not his own.

"Oh yes, little birds whisper many things. Your father whispered to me, before he died. Do you want to know what a bear hunts in the snow?" All Varys could see were Jorah's blue eyes. He wondered how closely they resembled the eyes of the dead. "I can tell you what it isn't. A bear doesn't hunt an iron throne."

"I have no interest in-"

"You hunt it for her," Varys interrupted. "In the words of your father, 'When the dead come hunting in the night, it doesn't matter who sits on the iron throne.'"

Varys reached forward, catching the edge of a mirror. He tilted it. In a trick the ghiscari were fond of, its light instantly caught a series of similar mirrors scattered about the room until it shone as though a thousand candles had erupted in flame.

The bear took up most of the wall, brooding. It was only those eyes that betrayed him. He'd have to be careful how many secrets he let spill from them.

"The dead are walking, young Mormont prince. We didn't build a thousand foot high wall to keep out a few marauding savages. Your father knew that. He and his men found something out there, beyond the wall, so terrifying that the lesser men would rather kill their commander than face the truth."

More secrets seeped from his eyes. Varys could read them plain as ravens.

"What exactly did you see, Mormont? You saw something and you've never told a soul."