Dothrakii Sea
"Your grace, is there not any other way? Please, I beg of you!"
"Ser Jorah, as my most trusted member of the Queensguard, are you going to fail my first command?"
"...I'm sorry, your grace," Ser Jorah bows.
Drogo's pyre has been aflame since the burning star took to the sky. Inside, his body and that of the horse and the sorceress are nothing more than black cinders now. And Jorah can only watch helplessly as his Queen Daenerys Targaryen, last of her line, casts herself into the fire. The last of the Targaryens, he thinks bitterly. A little girl dying in the flames of her husband's corpse. So far away from her homeland, all for a prophecy that never came.
A final report is needed. To the Spider he will tell that her death is not through his blade nor an assassin's poison, but grief. Grief for what she had lost. How happy Robert must be then, with all the Targaryens dead. And he'll then grant me back my title and land, back to Bear Island. How joyful.
...
He pities the girl. It was not her fault that her father wanted to burn down King's Landing, and it was her brother that caused the Rebellion. She didn't even carry the signature madness of the Targaryen like her brother Viserys. She was just that: a little girl, trapped within the horse lords' domain. None of it are her fault; if anything, it's Jorah's for being unable to prevent it all from happening. But he can't turn back time. Mirri Maz Duur still kills her child and Drogo remains dead.
He shakes his head. No, there is no need to reminisce now, Jorah. She's dead. You can go home now. Though bearing conflicting feelings, what's done is done. She is burning in the pyre. He recites a few prayers for the Old Gods and the New, hoping for them all to judge her soul fairly.
The camp is quite now with most people mourning within their tents. Drogo's khalasar is no more, having split into two after his fall from his horse. All that's left are her three loyal bloodriders, now part of her Queensguard, and the freed slaves in her name. Slaves... To think that her Grace would be kinder to them than I ever was to poachers.
And now, his mission is to leave for Westeros and claim his ill-gotten reward. But that's a problem: they're in the middle of the Dothrakii Sea, deep within the centre of Essos. They're probably closer to the legendary kingdom of Yi-Ti than Westeros, a fact that he does not take kindly towards. With most of the supplies been raided by the damn new khalasars, it'll be hard. There might be good meat with the horses, but I don't know how her bloodriders would react. Or perhaps I could lie to them about scouting for water and escape...
He sighs and looks up at the night sky. The glowing streak, or the burning star as the Dothrakii have called it. An ill omen as it was its appearance that spelt Daenerys' death. And perhaps an arrow pointing his way to leave; there's nothing more in this land.
He enters his tent and begins packing all the needed supplies. Wineskins full of water, armour, swords, and some dried meat he found beneath some boxes. Their quality are questionable. Maps... I will need maps, perhaps one with images of stars as well. Gold as well. Maybe there's some back in Daenerys' tent? The idea of pilfering the recently deceased girl's belongings hangs heavy above him. However, there's no use in crying now.
He heads to her tent, making sure that no one is around to see him. Taking a deep breath, he enters and-
"Ah, excuse me. Would you be kind enough to tell me where I am?"
-Stops. Standing atop some wolf-skin rugs is a woman. A strange woman for she is quite colourful in appearance. Her blonde hair is styled into the shape of wolf ears with a strange purple object pressed against her ears. Wearing a vibrant purple, red, and gold cape, she exudes a feeling of royalty. At least, someone who could afford the fine silks she wears. A sword is affixed to her hip, its hilt decorated in gold. The bangles on her arm are also made out of gold. She smiles at him, holding a piece of wood with strange writings to her mouth.
He does not recognise her; not the Dothrakiis, nor the freed slaves. He grips the hilt of his sword. "What are you doing here, woman? The Queen is dead."
"I'm sorry, the queen?" she tilts her head.
Does she not know about her? "The Queen, Daenerys Targaryen, the last of her line. She died not long ago, threw herself into the burning pyre outside."
"...Ah, I see. Forgive me for my lack of knowledge. I give you my condolences, Ser Jorah," she bows at him. He's confused now. Who is this woman? Why is she asking where they are? Is she one of the freed slaves? And who gave her those clothes? It didn't seem to be present in Daenerys' available attires, so it must have clearly come from elsewhere.
"State your name and motives," he draws his sword and points it at her. "As a knight of the Queensguard, I demand an answer."
"Knight? Wow, you mean like one of those Western-"
"Name and motives, woman! Or I'll cut you down for pilfering her late Grace's belongings."
"Woah, easy there," she pushes down the sword point with her stick. "I think we've stepped off on the wrong foot. Let me properly introduce myself. Ahem," she twirls with her cape, flourishing it like a mummer. "My name," she proclaims, "is Toyosatomimi no Miko, the almighty Taoist Hermit Prince! You may kneel in my presence, Ser Jorah Mormont, but it is not required."
...None of that titles are recognisable to him. Taoist, hermit... "Prince, you say? You don't look like a prince. Aren't you a woman?"
"Oh, Ser Jorah Mormont, Prince is simply the title I acquire and prefer," she smiles with an arm tucked inside her cape. "Others are more fitting for my status: Saint, God, and many other divine titles. But to be humble towards you, you may call me Prince Miko."
Another madwomen. The last time he entertained the whims of one, Daenerys lost her unborn child. No need to repeat the same mistake, even with the queen dead. "I don't trust you, especially what happened with the Queen. Get out of the tent."
"Well now, I've answered your question. It's only fair that you answer mine, is it not? Where am-"
"Dothrakii Sea. Move it."
"That... Does not explain much, Ser Jorah," she frowns, ignoring the man's vicious glare. "Where is thi-"
"I've had enough with your little games, woman." He steps closer, the events of the past few weeks irritated him greatly. Whoever she is, she saw him searching for something within the tent. It'll only become trouble later on. "Step outside. I'll deal with you later"
"How about we deal now, Ser Jorah?" She walks deeper into the tent before placing her foot on top of a chest. He recognises it as the one that stores all the maps purchased by Daenerys. "You explain to me in detail where I am and I'll let you have these maps."
How did she figure out what I was doing? Wait... Did I even tell her my name? If he tries to run now, he's going to be stopped by her informing the others. It's the same if he tries to kill her here. And so, he relents and sheathes his sword. "This place. We are now in a region at the centre of Essos known as the Dothrakii Sea, realm of the Dothrakii horse lords. This continent is East of Westeros, the westernmost continent of the known world. Are... Any of this familiar to you?"
"No, it does not," she sighs. "However, I have heard tales of horse lords from where I came from, but they were not called Dothrakiis. Hmm..." After pondering for a few moments, she kicks the chest towards Jorah. "Alright then, a deal is a deal. You can have those maps."
"Thank you." Still suspicious of this intruder, he opens the chest while keeping an eye on her. Sure enough, the maps within contains a few star charts visible from Essos. He knows a bit or two about reading these maps. Pilfering it, he notices that the woman is watching him closely, her face half-covered by her cape. I still have to take care of her. Will bribing her be enough?
Stuffing the maps into his bag, he heads to the table adorned with the late Queen's jewels and gold. But before reaching it, the woman stops him in his tracks. "How shameful is it, Ser Jorah, to plunder the belongings of the one you're sworn to protect? As royalty myself, I pity your queen if you are the most loyal of her followers."
"The Queen is dead," Jorah croaks, sadness stabbing into his heart. "I have no place in Essos. No, I must return to Westeros."
"Are you sure of that? Your queen's death?"
"What? She's burning in that damn fire with her husband and a sorceress. I offered her a chance for us to travel further East but she refuses. If she's not dead before then she's already long dead by now."
"...I wouldn't be so sure, Ser Jorah Mormont. Come." The woman grabs him by the collar of his clothes and drags him out of the tent. He's taken aback by her sudden strength but refrains from striking her; if indulging this woman's whims will let him free, he'll gladly do so. A few bloodriders watch them with suspicion as they walk towards the pyre.
It'll be hard getting away from them. They're far more capable than me with a horse. He can see Daenerys in there, a dark silhouette wreathed in light and flames. He turns his head away, not wanting to imagine the horrifying pain the girl has gone through. "If all you want is for me to see her body, Lady Miko, then I'm afraid I've seen too much already."
"It is Prince Miko, Ser Jorah. And she's still alive."
"The sun has set since she's entered the pyre. There's nothing left of her but-"
To his shock, the woman shoves her hands into the burning flames. But her clothes do not burn and neither does her skin. Instead, she grabs that dark silhouette and pulls it out of the fire. Seeing the dark shape, he wants to strike at her for desecrating Daenerys' corpse. But then it moved. The blackened skin is nothing more than ash and soot. The Queen, she still lives.
Clutching her in his arms, he calls for his bloodriders to come and bring the clothes and water. He looks at her unconscious face; though her hair is burnt off, there's not a blemish upon her skin. Alive. He holds her close, tears pouring out his eyes in choked sobs. His Queen, she still lives. And he will continue serving her 'til the day he dies. Tears of sadness or joy, he does not know.
The strange woman wraps the naked Daenerys with her cape. In the heat of the flames, the golden serpents embroidered on it swirls and swims in the sea of purple. The bloodriders come bearing supplies. Upon seeing her, they let out curses and praises, no doubt from the miracle they've just witnessed. Is it a miracle? Weren't the tales of the Targaryens say that they're immune to fire?
"...Lady Miko, thanks for-" he pauses. The woman is laughing madly, crouching down with half of her torso in the flames. Madwoman! But as he stands to pull her out, he hears a loud shrill. Then another. And another.
She stands, grinning towards Jorah. Entwined around her soot-covered neck and arms are three winged creatures, long necks and tails holding on to her. Though he never saw one alive, he knows what they are.
"Dragons..."
"Prince Miko," the woman groans as the creatures slither around her. "How hard is that to remember?"
Dragonstone
The flames burn bright today. And with the red comet, it glows even brighter.
Dragonbreath, Stannis recalls what the Red Priestess had called it. A sign of a brighter future by R'hllor, the Lord of Light. A future that burns bright for all of us.
The raven from King's Landing was a dark one. His brother wounded from a hunt, no doubt a fault in his indulgent drinking habits. But Stannis knows better. He knows the involvements of Jon Arryn and Robert's bastards. That's why he refuses the summons of the new Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, to return to the Small Council. He has an army to build, and that viper's nest is not the best place to conduct it.
Here, at Dragonstone, he can ruminate and stew within his own thoughts. When Robert dies, I shall ascend the throne. Not Cersei, and definitely not her accursed incest bastards. His death will not bring joy to Stannis' heart, but neither will it bring sadness. Only acceptance, for it was already foretold by Melisandre that a dark raven shall bear the news of the King's death. How it was all planned by those damned Lannisters yearning for their gold. I'll have their heads soon enough.
He watches with his family the Red Priestess' dance in front of the pyre, swaying and stirring along with each lick of flame. At its centre, statues of the Seven are burning to cinders, signalling Dragonstone's shift towards the worship of R'hllor. It was all helped by his wife, Sylese, who converted all remaining disbelievers on the island. But Stannis himself is still unsure of his faith to R'hllor, though he holds no respect towards the Seven either. No, he sees this as an opportunity to gain the shadowbinder's help. If the prophecies are coming true for him, then there's nothing he should protest.
The dance stops in a flurry of green and blue flames, much to the amazement of his daughter and his men. Stannis stays cold, for he knows what will come next. He leaves his seat and heads towards the burning pyre, the heat forming sweat on his brow. By the flames, Melisandre seems to shine as bright as the red comet. The ruby at her heart glows and throbs like a heartbeat, her warmth nearly overpowering that of the flames. Sorcery or divinity, it does not matter. I'll see its use. "What do you see within those flames, Melisandre?"
With her eyes focused on the embers, her lips parts to give him the prophecies. "When the star bleeds in the night sky will Azor Ahai be reborn. To fight back the Great Other and his throng of darkness and suffering, the warrior shall wield Lightbringer and slay the one who shall not be named." Finishing the proclamations, she gives way for Stannis to walk towards a large, burning statue of the Mother. A longsword is embedded in its heart. Grabbing the searing hilt, he grits his teeth and pulls the glowing longsword out of the pyre. Upon kissing the cold sea winds, the sword is set aflame.
Lightbringer.
"The Warrior of Light! The Son of Fire!" All kneel before Stannis, the future King of Westeros. Reverence, respect, fear, worship. All of it is for him. A swing of the sword leaves a blazing trail in the air, much to the cheers and celebration of his men. He can feel himself smile. For once in his life, they truly respect and fear him.
"Soon," he addresses his men, "the Iron Throne shall have its rightful ruler. One who will bring order and peace to the Realm, who will lead you all against the forces of darkness. My men!" he shouts. "In the name of R'hllor, I-"
The pyre behind him bursts into a great pillar of fire, cutting short his speech. Reaching even higher than the walls of Dragonstone, the heat and winds nearly topples him over. Shielding his eyes from the blinding light, he sees Melisandre, standing next to the flames. Even in this terrifying hot gale the Red Priestess does not move, instead looking enraptured at something within.
Stannis is never one to see divination and prophecies in the flames; it has always been the task of the Red Priestess. And yet- Is someone there!? He sees a faint shape forming itself within the blaze, pulling in the glowing embers of the pyre. He could barely see the long hair of the figure when the fire explodes.
His ears burst and brightness envelopes him as he feels himself falling through the air. Landing with a crash on the sandy banks of Dragonstone, the sword is thrown from his hands. Pain. His lungs burn, his face burns, his arm stabbing into itself. Rising from the black sand, he sees the chaos before him. All his soldiers are running in panic. Some unlucky ones are no more than black husks on the shores, while buildings and trees are consumed by a blaze. Like a dragon has descended upon them.
My men... My- "Selyse! SHIREEN!" Stannis screams, struggling to get onto his feet. He ignores his pains and the throbbing of his leg; all that matters are his wife and daughter. Hobbling his way towards the pyre, he sees the canopy they had been in burning bright. His heart sinks but he continues on, screaming their name. As he's about to plunge into it, soldiers tackle him and hold him back. "Release! Release me I said!"
His soldiers shouts something back at him, though he can't hear anything besides the ringing of his ears. He struggles in their grasp, but slowly feels himself losing strength. A pair of hands drag him away from the burning canopy, and he can only watch helplessly as the men try to put out the flames.
Stannis sees the man's left hand is missing a few knuckles. "Davos," he groans. "Unhand me. Let me see them."
But the Onion Knight does not yield. Instead, he lies Stannis down on a flat rock outcropping, covering the crippled man's torso with a blanket. Davos looks pained as he speaks to Stannis, but he can't hear a word. He grabs his liege lord's hand, as if assuring him, and joins the others to put out the flames.
He looks over to the direction of the pyre, and sees that it's no longer aflame. Black smoke blankets the sky, threatening to swallow the stars. He can't move his legs. Raising his left arm, all he sees is a black, twisted mess. His face. He can't feel anything.
But Stannis feels fury. Fury that only a Stormlord can bear. His anger grows, not only towards Melisandre but to the fire god R'hllor himself. His faith wavers. What kind of god kill his men and family, devout followers of his faith? Had he been worshipping a false god? A red demon as the Faith stated? Was all this death and destruction a punishment from the Seven?
Contemplating his fate, he sees the figure of Melisandre approaching him. The woman is unhurt and unblemished; not even her red hair is burnt from the flames. And her face... That damn smiling face. Where once her beautiful visage helps to calm his mind to the faith of the flames, now a fire burns in his heart. "Melisandre!" he rasps, coughing up blood. "You damned red witch! What did you do to my men!?"
She keeps her calm and smiles at him. Though he can't hear her speech, he sees the movement of her lips. Though vague, he can string together some of it. "Sacrifice? Sacrifice!? Is my family nothing but a sacrifice to your damned demon!?"
He tries to grasp her neck, choke out that damned fire inside her. But his body feels weak. Tiredness lies heavy against his body, and he falls into a stupor. It would be days before he opens his eyes again.