Book II – Chapter 6: Fear of Fire
Wendish Town
Bran was not brave enough to tell Ysilla why the Raven was following them. It haunted his dreams, and it haunted his steps awake. He saw… he saw so many things. Scary things. Things he had no business seeing, didn't want to see.
You must learn! Time is short! The Others march!
He couldn't tell Ysilla. Couldn't admit his fears to her. The waking world was just as frightening as the things he saw in his dreams. Every time he woke, he was starving and thirsty. And often wet. It rained a lot in the South. They made do as best they could, walking barefoot through the forest and using the sun to move south. South, Ysilla insisted, was the safest bet. If they could find a castle or town across the border into the Reach, they'd be safe from the Riverlanders. Bran didn't have the heart to tell her what the Raven had shown him. They would find no security in the Reach. The Raven pointed this out often. It wanted to go east. It kept sending him glimpses of an island filled with Weirwoods, their blood-stained faces staring back into his very soul.
Bran didn't want to find the island, so he followed Ysilla. They drank from the small streams they came across, and if they passed a town, they would find a warm alley to sleep in, begging for some food from generous passers-by.
Two days ago, a baker had offered them his stale pastries. It was the first time their bellies had been full in…
He…
He couldn't remember.
How long had it been since they escaped?
The scrapes and cuts from tripping on roots were nothing compared to the ever-present pain in his stomach, eating away, reminding him of just how hungry he was. How much he'd used to take food for granted. When Margaery had tried to explain to him in Winterfell how different life was for the boys and girls who grew up in the Warrens or Wintertown, Bran had mostly nodded along and just listened to her voice. It had this soothing quality to it he had liked, even if he didn't really listen to what she said.
He wished he'd listened more now. Maybe she'd said something important about the lives of the poor. Something he could use to help Ysilla and himself.
"Bran!" Ysilla exclaimed, suddenly perking up beside him and rushing forward. Bran pushed his fears and worries away for a moment – they would soon be back – and looked ahead in kind.
The forest came to an abrupt stop a short way ahead, and a village beyond – burned to its foundations.
"What happened here?" Bran whispered, feeling the sudden urge to vomit what little remained of the pastries he'd eaten two days ago now.
Ysilla gestured towards the grass ahead. It had been thoroughly trampled.
"Cavalry," she said. "An army rode through here."
She'd grown gaunt-faced since their escape, cheeks losing their colour, bags forming under her eyes and lips cracking from lack of drink. He supposed he mustn't look much better, but that spark in her eyes remained, and she did her best to keep his spirits up. There was this strange sensation he felt whenever she smiled at him he couldn't quite explain, but he was quite certain he liked it a great deal.
Taking his hand, she led him beyond the tree line, across the grassy plain, and into the ash-covered city.
The destruction was recent; that much was obvious. Embers still burned in some of the houses, smouldering wood and thatch scatted across roads of hard-packed dirt. It was certainly not a large town, but Bran thought he could identify the remains of a blacksmith on his right.
And a well.
There was a well in the centre of the town, mercifully free of the black ash that flitted through the air and clung to the side of buildings.
With a single look, they started running, reaching the stone wall in mere moments. Bran grabbed the rope tied into the side of the frame – frayed and thin but still useable – and started heaving with what little strength he could muster.
A bucket appeared soon enough, and Ysilla grabbed it with glee.
"Ash free!" She beamed, taking a long, slurping drink of the cool liquid then handing it to Bran, smile reaching all the way to her eyes, dimpling her cheeks. That strange feeling, like tingles along his skin, prickled at him again as he looked at her, and to hide his embarrassment, he took a long drink from the bucket before lowering it back down once more.
"I'm going to search the houses; see if there's any food, or maybe some water skins. Keep a watch out here," she said, then bounced away like a rabbit in the snow before Bran could even answer.
Bran looked around the town once more. Why had it been burned? What army had passed through here? Had they done this? So many questions, so few answers. He didn't know how far they'd come. They might still be in Bracken territory, or they could be further south. He searched his memory of Maester Lewin's maps, trying to recall which House owned lands south of House Bracken.
House Goodbrook.
Bran jerked around, pulled by some force not his own, and found himself staring at a raven perched atop an odd structure at the furthest edge of town. Like a pyramid, but constructed from burned wood, and three thick tree trunks stretched skyward from the base. Something was attached to each trunk…
He edged closer, confused and a little intrigued, until he saw the same sigil he'd seen in his dreams, displayed proudly on a post driven through the dirt before the burned structure.
A black stag surrounded by red flames.
Bodies.
They were bodies attached to the trunks.
They smelled; stunk of rot and decay and fire. Blackened skin clinging to bone, hands tied chained to the trunk above the people's heads.
It was a pyre.
"AHHHHHHH!"
Ysilla.
Heart hammering in his throat, stomach sinking as deep into his bowels as possible, Bran turned and ran back the way he came. Ysilla came stumbling out of one of the houses and dry-retched onto the blackened ground.
"Bodies! Inside! There were… there were… there were babies!"
Ysilla threw herself into Bran's arms, sobbing into the ragged clothes he wore, and he could do nothing but shove his eyes closed and hold her tight. The only thing he had left in the world.
The night is dark and full of terrors, Brandon. But there is worse coming. You MUST fly!
"Fly!" the Raven cried through the dead town, taking wing and darting to the east.
"Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!"
Bran didn't fly. He didn't want to fly. He just held close to Ysilla and cried together with her. For these poor people, forgotten and butchered for somebody else's war. For two kids, alone in the world.
Wake Up
"Kingslayer? You awake?"
No.
"Your foot twitched, dumbass, now get up!"
Why couldn't he be dead? He should be. He deserved it. Why was it that Jaime always survived when everyone else didn't?
Slap!
Jaime finally opened pain-filled eyes and allowed himself to take in the world around him. Unsurprisingly, they were still stuck down in this shithole. He didn't know how long they'd been stuck down here; none of them did. The only safe place to sleep was in one of the sewer culverts dug into the side of the pit. Of the twenty-three people they'd started with, only five remained. Twelve had died within the first few days – mostly from their burns. The rest had taken longer, getting taken by one of the myriads of diseases down in the pit.
"What do you want?" He growled.
His assaulter was a woman. A gorgeous woman, in fact. Lush blonde hair, a kind and sweet face, fair skin, and the bluest eyes Jaime had ever seen. When she'd found him amidst the mud and ruin of Visenya's Hill, floating on a piece of masonry, he thought at first that she might be a goddess. Cersei, if she hadn't been… changed by that fucking throne. His dream was shattered quickly thereafter, when the eternal pain in Jaime's backside, Barristan Selmy, came trudging out of the muck behind her. Even in death, he had thought, Selmy would be there to chastise him.
"The old man only has a few minutes left," Tyene said gently, standing up and offering him a hand. He took it, letting her pull him up from the tattered curtain he called a blanket role. He followed her without a word as she guided him through the culvert, water dripping from the roof to the dirtied ground. It was slanted, so the water rolled down the cavern and out into the pit. That was what kept it safe. The pit was… it was a nightmare turned real. Entire buildings just floating in a thick combination of blood, guts, mud, oil, ash and rain from above. There was no way to know what was beneath your feet or when a previously stable platform would collapse beneath the silt, never to be seen again. The ground, or what passed for ground, kept undulating and shifting – Barristan called it 'quicksand' though Jaime had never heard of it before. It was as if the pit was alive and filled with the anger and rage of the thousands of corpses that floated intact or charred in its waters. Venturing out to find survivors very nearly killed Jaime several times – had killed at least four that he'd seen.
Tyene pushed open a steel grate that served as a door, then handed Jaime a rag. Dirt covered rags and shredded clothes were all they had down here, but these rags they tried to keep at least somewhat clean. They held them to their faces and advanced a few metres to the only occupied spot left. This drain was the only one that was always dry, though no one could guess why. At first, it had been full of people moaning and crying out in agony as Tyene and Maeglin – the only two septas they'd found – cared for the wounded. Now, there was only one.
Ser Barristan looked dead, even if he still had a few breaths left in him. His neck, wrists and joints were all peeling from his burns, still blotched and raw due to his refusal to stop moving and go back out to help people. But his armour had helped him survive the initial explosion, just like Jaime's had. They'd both been thrown into the air when the hill collapsed, armour protecting them from the severe burns suffered by most others, and had landed in the mire. They'd been pulled down as it sank, two of the few survivors of the initial explosion who weren't then drowned or crushed as the abyss opened up.
"Jaime?" Barristan croaked, reaching out a frail hand. Jaime dropped to his knees at the old man's side, taking the hand and squeezing it tight.
"You'll make it through, Lord Commander," Jaime assured, "We've almost cleared the tunnel we think connects to the outside. Just a couple more days…."
"Listen to me now, Jaime," Barristan hissed, gripping him tighter and trying to sit upright. He broke down into hacking coughs as Tyene pressed a cloth to his forehead, then he collapsed back to the fur pallet. The only one they had, salvaged from the single tower to survive the fall intact.
"Is there nothing you can do?" Jaime begged the septa, and Tyene shook her head.
"If we were on the surface? Yes. But he has too much fluid in his lungs, and I don't have any of the materials I'd need. He pushed himself too hard; now, he's paying the price."
Tyene had been deep underground, in one of the sept's underground caverns, during the explosion. She and a few others had survived the fall mostly unharmed thanks to that, and she'd been the first person Barristan found when he woke in the mud and grime and started his search.
"Listen, Jaime," Barristan said again, staring at him through pale skin and sunken eyes. "You're… the only Kingsguard left now. This… is my last order as Lord… Commander…" he stopped, taking several long moments to steady himself before he forged on.
"Find out… who did this. Avenge… everyone. Don't do it for the… the King. Do it for your brothers, and… all the dead outside."
"You'll make it through, ser," Jaime tried again, but Barristan's grip was starting to slip.
"The Kingsguard's place is… is by the King's side. I've served three Kings; now I rest and go to meet my brothers. Barristan the Bold, they call me… I wonder what old Duncan will think of that…."
"Barristan…"
But the old knight had closed his eyes now, and before long, his chest stopped rising, leaving only Jaime and Tyene to witness the death of one of the greatest men in the Seven Kingdoms.
Barristan, of all the knights of the Kingsguard, of near all the people in Kings Landing and even Westeros, was the only one who had never called Jaime 'Kingslayer'. He remembered, when everyone else forgot what Aerys did to Rhaella and so many others. It wasn't Jaime's fault he was the only one of the seven who dared to do something to stop her nightly screams, but for it, he was named oath breaker. Barristan had been the only one who'd ever held Jaime to a higher standard.
Who would do that now? Who was left to care about Jaime Lannister?
Skahazadhan
"There's a type of rig the Qarthian traders use to transport horses from Ulthos," Uncle Oberyn explained. "You rig up a sling so the horses don't slip or try and move. It's slow going, and you can only move about twenty per ship – less, if your craft is smaller, I suppose – but it is doable. However, it's far easier to travel overland as far as you can. The horses struggle with water travel, and many simply die from the stress."
Arianne nodded, sitting aside her Meereenese courser, a looking glass held to her eye. The horde camped in the canyon below looked like an enormous city from this vantage point. A city of canvas, horseflesh, barbarians and slaves. Also screaming. There was a great deal of screaming in Dothraki encampments, apparently. Arianne wasn't sure if it was sex, brutal murder, or something else, and to be perfectly frank, she was quite happy not knowing.
"So, we could definitely bring some back to Dorne? Elia would make good use of some of those huge studs – maybe even create an entirely new breed."
"Oh, for certain," Oberyn said, peering through his own looking glass. "Though, we should probably defeat them before we start selling their horses."
"Good point," Arianne conceded, before turning her horse and starting back down the goat track, a rough dirt path just large enough for the two of them to navigate on horseback.
They rode for a little under an hour before they reached the edge of the clay and dirt cliffs, and banks of the Skahazadhan unfolded before them. A flat river plain, craggily mountain ranges on either side, roughly a day's ride from Meereen. If they kept their current pace, the Dothraki horde would arrive at the walls this time tomorrow.
"Any idea what the Empress intends to do?" Oberyn asked as they approached the river ford, a ring of tents pitched beside the bank.
"No."
Oberyn raised an eyebrow at her, unbelieving.
"She has said nothing to you? No explanation why she ordered all the city leaders and the entire Westerosi contingent out here and threatened to exile anyone who didn't come?"
Arianne rolled her eyes.
"Why exactly would she share those plans with me?"
Oberyn snorted. "Because you're fucking her," he answered flatly, as if that were obviously what he meant. Arianne's skin grew hot, skin tingling at her neck and between her thighs.
"Yes, I am. She has quite the pussy, and an outrageous appetite. I can barely keep up."
That was only a slight exaggeration. Arianne honestly was a bit staggered by the sheer… ingenuity Daenerys had when it came to unique sex. At least there had been no mention of the dragons yet.
Arianne glanced towards the sky. They were up there somewhere, probably, though there had been no sign of the creatures since they'd left Meereen and set up camp here on the plain yesterday. And, conveniently, no sign of Rhaenys.
"Tyrion and Rhaenys know, I think," Arianne admitted. "But she had not enlightened me as to her intentions, sex or no."
Her uncle turned towards her with an odd expression. Half conflicted, half… confused? His brow was furrowed, but his lips quirked up, and that characteristic mischievousness lingered in his eyes.
"But the sex is good, yes? Honestly, Arianne, she is a queen! A queen who rides dragons! You better be giving that girl a good fucking, or I will have to take over. Just to make sure she is getting a proper experience, you understand…."
Arianne threw her water skin at her uncle's face. Of course, he caught it, but that wasn't the point.
"That's just gross. An old man like you? There's no way you could keep up with a gorgeous, energetic and enrapturing young thing like her."
Uncle Oberyn gasped, raising a hand to his mouth in faux outrage.
"Enrapturing, you say? That certainly settles it. I cannot in good conscience allow you to continue abusing her Grace this way! I must teach her the true art of lovemaking, the way only a true master of the craft can."
"A true master? More like someone who's stuck his cock in so much cheap pussy his dick has started to swell along with his head."
"Hey! My cock has plunged deep into the depths of plenty of cheap ass as well. Wouldn't want all those poor boys to feel left out."
"Like the Unsullied?"
They both paused, then burst out laughing as they reached the encampment, surrounded by a literal wall of Unsullied spears, as well as the hastily erected wooden palisade. They stopped beside a stable tent and dismounted, handing off their steeds to a Yunkish freeman.
"In all seriousness, Arianne," Oberyn continued, throwing an arm across her shoulders and leading her towards the enormous common tent. "She has you whipped. As much as she has everyone else – even more maybe. You've been sleeping with her for, what, two moons now? And you've barely come up with any useful information. Allies we may be, but information is always important, and I've never known you to forget that. Which means you aren't looking for it. You're whipped."
Arianne didn't answer, instead distracting herself by staring at the ostentatiousness of the tent once used by the Great Masters. Shaped like the pyramid itself and made almost entirely from the wealthiest silk, it was the stupidest structure she'd ever seen. Of course, that didn't mean it wasn't useful. The inside was large enough to house an entire orgy – also a war council, but priorities – and featured more finery than Arianne had imagined could fit in a tent. Daenerys had left most of the gaudy furniture behind, thankfully, but she had brought the finely crafted and inlaid sets. The nobles believed it an image of power curated for them. The freemen thought it a showing of strength against the Dothraki. Arianne knew different. It was an offering to the Dothraki. A proof of concept.
"It's not a bad thing. I'm happy for you, truly. And Doran would be too. He was always scared you wouldn't find anyone you really cared for," Oberyn said softly, rubbing Arianne's shoulder, and she couldn't help but rest her head on his in turn for a brief moment.
She wasn't sure what she felt for Daenerys. She knew it was different to the sense of lust and conquest that accompanied some new prey or mark. And she certainly didn't intend to stop her lifestyle all because she was now having sex with a dragon queen. But maybe, part of the reason she was so drawn, so enraptured, by Daenerys was because Arianne knew she wouldn't ask her to stop. The sex was amazing, that was certain, but there was something else there as well, in the moments where they lay in bed next to one another, panting, and when they fell asleep in each other's arms.
At the very least, her efforts – both in the bed and at the negotiating table – had secured a powerful ally for Dorne. Her father would be proud of that indeed.
They straightened themselves out before entering the tent and drawing the attention of everyone inside. Obara, Nymeria, Sarella and Areo stood to one side with Varys and Tyrion Lannister (ready to murder both of them at a moments notice), while the leaders of Daenerys' coalition of noblemen and freemen from across Slaver's Bay occupied the other. Arianne hadn't bothered learning their names. Standing behind Daenerys herself were the usual suspects: Ser Jorah, Missandei, Daario Naharis, Grey Worm – Captain of the Unsullied, and her three Dothraki blood riders; Aggo, Jhogo and Rakharo. And in the back corner lurked the captains of the Golden Company – Harry Strickland and Jon Connington. Arianne and Sarella had spent a considerable portion of their time since being freed making their lives utterly miserable.
But Daenerys was dressed in an outfit Arianne had never seen before. Horsehair pants, woven grass sandals, a medallion belt, and a leather vest painted with the red-dragon sigil. Her hair was intricately braided, as usual, but she'd entwined several silver bells into the tresses. Bells like those the Dothraki themselves wore, Arianne realised.
Rhaenys was not there.
"Are they coming?" Daenerys asked, not bothering with any pleasantries.
"Yes," Oberyn said. "They will see us when they start moving in the morning, but you're the expert on the Dothraki. What will they do when they see the tents you've had set up?"
Daenerys grinned.
"This close to a target as large as Meereen, the women and followers of the khalasar will be towards the rear. The riders will be at the head, ready for an attack or an ambush. When the scouts see the tents, they'll get the Khals, then, one of two things will happen," she explained, glancing around at the people in the room. Tyrion and Varys were both smirking, though at what, Arianne wasn't sure. The freemen were staring up at the Queen in adoration – so nothing new there – while the nobles looked slightly terrified.
"Option one, the Khals let their blood-riders compete for the honour of riding us down and killing us. Option two, the Khals take the bait and come in person. It depends on how united the khalasar is." Daenerys' three blood-riders all nodded in agreement.
"Then why are we here, oh great queen?" One of the nobles asked, doing a piss poor job of his simpering.
Daenerys shot the man a case of serious side-eye, then grinned. Like a cat, sighting its prey. Arianne shivered.
"You are here, Hizdahr, because I want you all to see first-hand what happens to those who threaten the safety of the people under my care. Tomorrow morning, whichever choice the Khals make, the Dothraki will ride out onto the plain. You will all stand witness atop the palisade and watch as they ride towards you, intent on raping and murdering every single one of you. They don't care about you or your titles or your perfumes or your family names. They care about one thing – me. I'm to go to the Dosh Khaleen, and if it is Jhaqo, and I'm certain it is, he won't stop until he has me. He will burn Meereen to the ground, take your gold, and make you all slaves. The only thing protecting you is me. So, my lords of Meereen. You will cease any and all funding of the Sons of the Harpy…."
Oberyn and Arianne had made themselves rather indispensable to the Empress, and not just through sex. It had been her uncle who put Daenerys onto the actions of the so-called 'Sons of the Harpy', and thanks primarily to his and Arianne's diligence that no major attacks had succeeded so far.
"We aren't funding…." Hizdahr tried, but Daenerys held up a single hand, and his mouth clamped shut.
"Yes, but you'll stop it anyway. Or the next time you witness my wrath, you will find yourself on the wrong side of it."
With that, Daenerys strode towards the tent's exit, her council in tow. She paused at the flap, turning back and shooting everyone a gleaming smile.
"Get some sleep, my friends. There is sure to be quite the show tomorrow!"
Daenerys disappeared, and Oberyn and Arianne shared a look.
Oh, they would definitely be getting good seats.
Next time:
Daenerys and Rhaenys get some up close and personal time with the Dothraki Horde! It's sure to be… a fiery confrontation! Get it! Yeah, you get it.
My jokes suck.
PS: It's worth pointing out some of the Daenerys stuff here. Jorah is still here, as only Varys knows about his role as a spy and hasn't told anyone. Belwas is absent (sadly), as he never meets Daenerys with Arstan in Qarth (as Barristan is dead, and also wasn't exiled). Missandei is her show age rather than her book age (because, quite simply, I don't want to write about what happens to eleven-year-old slave girls in any way shape or form). No apologies for the book purists. Um… oh, Strickland and Connington are just sort of there at the moment. There will be elephants and Golden Company stuff in book 3! I promise! And finally, Brown Benn Plumm is dead. Why? Because I am God and I said so. Also, Quaithe is actually the Doctor, that's how she appears all over the place, and why she always wears a mask. I should probably get a TARDIS cameo somewhere… I bet Clara has read the ASOIAF books, being a lit teacher and all.