ILLICIT GOODS

SLAVER'S BAY

The boat creaked underfoot, rocking lazily with the incoming tide working its way from one side of the world to the next. Jorah's shoulder impacted the cabin door sending a storm of splinters into the air. The lock loosened. He pulled back. Ran at it again. This time the hit collapsed it inward, leaving the door awkwardly hanging from one hinge while its hefty lock hit the floor with a solid thunk.

Jorah stumbled through the doorway, reaching for the shredded frame as the boat rolled gently. A pile of silver cloth strewn beneath the window drew his eye. As the ship rolled back, the cloth moved. Daenerys.

'Gods of the fucking frozen sea...' he hissed under his breath, staggering to the queen. He knelt beside her, lifting a thin veil of silver cloth from over her face. The queen was whispering incoherently, twitching, sweating and shaking. A fever dream. He'd witnessed many. They grew more frequent as they drifted into the southern reaches of the world. Varys suggested that it might be the beginnings of madness – Jorah could only hope that he was wrong.

It was dangerous to wake a dreamer so he did nothing save sit beside her and wait.

The boat rolled again. All the adornments hanging from the ceiling took on a lean. Some of them banged together making soft, mystical sounds. Was this his world? How did a knight from the North end up drifting on an ocean at the edge of the realm?


Ash became ice. She was in a storm, raging over a desert of ice. Ahead, a blustering mess of snow swelled – violent blue at its base and dark grey toward the crest – rising in a seething wall as terrifying as a frozen wave. Daenerys felt the weight of a sword in her hand. When she turned her head to look it fell from her grasp, piercing the ice with an angry, metallic ring.

A bear strode out of the storm. Its black fur bristled, laced with snow. It looked right at her – then to the sword, curling its lip to reveal a pair of curved fangs. When Daenerys cast her gaze down, the sword was aflame.

'Daenerys...'

The snow advanced on her, blurring the world to white.

"Daenerys?"

A bear growled.

Daenerys startled, opening her eyes. She jolted upright, gasping for air, clutching at her arms.

"Easy..." her bear insisted.

Ser Jorah was beside her on the floor, drinking in the afternoon sun that streamed through the boat's window. It must have been the warmth that woke her.

"I was – somewhere else," she whispered, reaching for the cup of water that he offered. She sipped it slowly. "I know they're not real," she added, after a long silence. "And yet I cannot tell their detail from reality when I am in them. They are – I can't explain what they are."

"They are a gift," Jorah took the glass from her and helped her to her feet. She leaned heavily on him. He could feel her skin cold to the touch even though she'd been laying in the sun. "There are very few people that have or will ever live with whispers of the future."

"That is all well and good for the priests in their temples, muttering away the hours," she replied, letting him lower her to the bed, "but I am a queen. A Targaryen. I will not be mad. I cannot. They will kill me."


Varys found that he didn't mind the salt lashing at his face. It reminded him of Lys. Yunkai was close. He could smell its foul breath on the air ruining the otherwise pleasant vista. It was one corner of the world he'd not been. Of course he'd heard about its golden walls and vast wealth, read the ravens whenever the old masters cared to send word to the capital. He'd been rather surprised to learn that the young dragon queen had conquered the city so quickly. As suspected, her reign was temporary and quickly drawing to its end. They would be sailing into a city precariously balanced over two abysses.

"Safety is relative," Varys eventually replied to Tyrion's question.

The dwarf, who'd consumed half a bottle of wine awaiting the answer, was groggy. "What?" he replied, unable to remember what they were speaking of.

"You asked if making port in Yunkai was a good idea."

"Oh." He lurched oddly, holding his chest. Sea did not agree with him. All the hours he'd spent on it were either at war, hiding or as a prisoner. "They have plenty of ships. We need ships."

"That they do and yes we do." Varys thought he could even see a few dotted amongst the waves. "I've sent the masters a proposition of sorts..."

"I thought the queen held this city?"

"In appearances. If we try to sail away with the whole fleet we'll quickly discover who really owns the people of Yunkai. No one likes a foreign conqueror, not even the enslaved."

"The queen is not going to be happy when she finds out what you have planned in the feathers of your ravens."

"The queen doesn't need to know the particulars." Varys leaned carefully against the rail. Yes, those were ships, lording over Slaver's Bay with their golden sails rippling. They were each like lost hunks of rock, gravitating around their star, ready to be cut free at any moment. "The important thing is that we secure enough ships and supplies to sail onto Astapor."


At Yunkai, they found the famous golden sea gates open with enormous dragon banners draped over the cliffs. Their black edges clipped the waves. Yunkai was the only harbour in the world built entirely behind impenetrable gates. No one, in the history of the known world, had conquered Yunkai by the sea. Now Daenerys' fleet slowed to a crawl, carefully navigating the cliff-bound approach. The wind died. Their sails deflated, slacking against the ropes. Jorah came out onto the deck to eye the suspicious harbour. The last time they'd been in this city they had the freedom of the land gates.

"What troubles you, Mormont?" Tyrion wandered over, slightly drunk. He tripped but caught the rail, hauling himself up.

"Those gates," he replied simply. The waves crashed against their base, wearing off the gold facades. Beneath they were stone. Cold and hard.

"It is lucky that the Second Sons man them. Shame we lost their commander..." Jorah looked sharply at the imp. Tyrion raised his hands innocently. "I am not insinuating anything – just stating how it might look to those with a more suspicious mind than myself."

"That's insinuating."

"Pleasant day," Varys appeared. He was draped in his inappropriately long silk attire better suited to palaces than boats.

Jorah hadn't worked out exactly how Varys wormed his way onto the queen's small council. He assumed it had something to do with Tyrion, nevertheless he wasn't entirely sure he trusted the spider's motives. A man that worked for his own interests could never be entirely relied upon. "A little more wind would be better," he replied. "There's nothing to run on in this harbour."

Their ships passed the gates. Up close the gold was revealed as paint. The huge hinges and counterweights defied gravity. Whichever empire built these, it was not the Yunkai... Something caught Jorah's eye – a flare of red nestled in the cliffs, barely inside the gates. A tree – struggling with its awkward home on the rock, offered a flare foliage to the harsh sun. A weirwood. It was alive. Jorah wondered if anyone watched from its leaves.

"You know," began Varys, tilting his head thoughtfully at the city as it came into focus, "legend says that Yunkai was once home to a Shadow. It bound the walls with spells and curses, layering them in against the mud. The black wave of corpses will wash against its walls and withdraw, as surely as the tide."

"Magic will save them – is that your theory?" Jorah turned to look at him. "The Valyrian's thought so too. Magic is fickle. Who can tell what side the gods favour?"

"It is all the same to the many faced god," Varys noticed the weirwood too. He did not let his thoughts linger there in case someone could hear them. "But only a fool would think that magic has no sway on the outcome of war."

"I said it was unpredictable – not irrelevant."


Daario wasn't a man for hard labour. Despite being genuinely afraid of his current pirate captors, he was insufficiently motivated to tie the sails in a timely fashion. Instead, he lingered at the top of the rigging, enjoying the fresh breeze and view of the coast which their ship skirted around.

"Oh – you little bugger..." he whispered, leaning into the wind. Their fleet of ships was being tailed by a dragon. No one had noticed but then, to most the creature looked like a large eagle, soaring high. It was still a cub, playing in the wind.

Something struck Daario sharply in the chest. He groaned, momentarily losing his grip on the mast. On the deck, his 'boss' was shouting something in very ill common tongue and brandished catapult. He loaded then shot another small rock at Daario. This time it missed, splintering the mast next to his face.

"Relax!" Daario shouted down at him. He tied up the rigging then headed back to the deck where he was slapped over the back of the head and kicked in the shins for dawdling.

On the third day he seriously considered murdering the entire crew. It was possible but with more than a dozen ships surrounding this one not even he could hope to escape. Perhaps there was another option.

"I'll take that," Daario stepped in front of one of the slaves carrying a pitcher of wine towards the main quarters of the ship where the warrior queens drank and gambled their way across the seas. The small servant glanced nervously about but it was late at night and everyone was either drunk or asleep. Daario relieved him of the wine and carried it over to the locked door the knocked calmly. When he entered, the towering pirate queens from Bayasabhad with their dark skin and vibrant, green eyes turned on him.

Daario tried to ignore the skeletons hung from the far wall. He wasn't sure if they were trophies or blood magic – either way they were repulsive, knocking together as the boat rocked.

"Did you kill the wine boy?" One of them asked.

Daario looked rather offended. "No." The pirate shrugged and held up her glass, waiting for him to serve her. He did. "I only want to talk. Murder seemed a bit over the top." He risked a playful wink – the sort that normally worked on the females of his acquaintance and immediately regretted it when he was slapped across the face. Tough crowd.

"Talk. You have until you finish serving the wine."

"Your fleet is being followed," he began, moving to the next glass, "by a dragon."

"The silver bitch is nowhere near these waters. Last we heard she'd scurried off to Slaver's Bay."

"Not the Targaryen Queen," Daario carefully corrected. "A dragon – one of hers. It was tracking the Dothraki caravan that you bought me from. I've watched it for weeks picking off the occasional horse whenever we made camp. It is certainly real and quite large. Have you ever seen a living dragon?"

That held their attention and even though he'd finished serving him wine, they did not hiss at him to leave.

"Why would it follow our ships?" asked one of the pirates. "We are slim pickings compared to the displaced hoards that roam the land."

"That – at least – is easy," he replied, setting down the heavy wine canister. "Me." Daario was met with incredulous looks. "Perhaps I didn't introduce myself correctly. I am Daario Naharis, Commander of the Second Sons, lover to the Queen and I must say, rather under priced."

"This – dragon – knows you?"

"We have an understanding." It was probably after one of his limbs but he didn't share that. The truth was, Daario was rather concerned about the dragon's motivations for pursuing him. He doubted that it was fond of him. "Dragons will change the world," Daario assured them. "I have an offer to make your wonderful people, displaced at sea by the Seven Kingdoms. Unless you'd rather wait here for it to get bored and roast your fleet?"

One of the pirates pushed a chair toward him with her feet. "Sit then, dragon-lover, pour yourself some wine and we may talk."


"What's in the chest?" Daenerys asked, watching the hefty thing carried onto the dock. Lines of ex-slaves waited patiently, edging the harbour side of the city. Their chains might be gone but their white togas and black hems remained the same. Daenerys doubted any had managed to cling onto the freedom she'd offered.

"Bribes," Jorah replied, "for the Harbour Master. He waits beyond the gold door. It is ceremonial for fleets to offer such things. We must buy his good graces."

"And this is not the time to break with ceremony."

"No – it is not."

They stood for nearly an hour in the sun, the ships creaking behind them and the sweat of her Unsullied guard wetting the dock. Jorah noticed his queen's hand shaking. He wanted to ask if she was all right but even the faintest breath of weakness could endanger them all. Daenerys had to be the Silver Dragon Queen of myth – untouchable in her absolute rule. If the people of Yunkai believed that she was a deity then maybe, just maybe they'd all live long enough to buy a fleet and sail to Westeros. Missandei remained on board, guarding the queen's ship.

Eventually Varys wandered down the length of the docks, arms folded into his sleeves and bald head slick from the heat. He stopped and bowed deep before the queen. "We are granted entry, your grace," he announced politely. "The city council will receive us and hear your request."

Jorah had already counted the available ships in the harbour. There were three-hundred odd prepared to sail, most sunken enough to suggest a full hull. Their own forces plus those that they'd left in control of Yunkai could probably re-take the city from a rebellion and allow them to steal the ships but their losses would be heavy and word would spread to Astapor before they could follow. If they walked that path they'd have to make do with this fleet. It wouldn't be enough for Westeros.

"Remember," Jorah whispered to his queen. "Conflict will do us more harm than good. Let the spider earn his keep. His webs are all through this city's streets. Calm. Patience."

Daenerys eyed the bald man now leading them toward the palaces. "Trust Varys..."

"Trust Varys to buy us ships," Jorah corrected her.

"Trust..." she repeated, the word ill in her mouth.


Inside the Harbour Master's palace Daenerys was met by a coalition of slavers masquerading under merchant titles. She tried not to sneer. It was less than a year ago that she could have had them hanging from the sea walls. Their fear had become resentment and it burned in their gaze. Dragons feared no fire so she smiled and nodded politely at them.

"My Queen..." one of them greeted disingenuously. "Welcome back to Yunkai. It has been many moons since your grace has laid her eyes upon our city. Have you come to visit or stay?"

Jorah was paranoid. Daenerys could feel his disquiet against her skin as if it were her own. He was counting the exits, marking every breathing creature as friend of foe. He'd kill them all if she asked – slaughter the entire city on the edge of his sword. If it was her life on the other side, there was no warrior alive more dangerous than him.

"Will they honour the deal?" he asked the queen later. They stood alone on one of the wrap around balconies balanced precariously off the edge of a cliff.

"Varys says yes."

"You are disappointed..." Jorah turned, leaning against the rail with one arm. They were too high up for the salt spray but the gulls spiralled around them, diving into a thousand holes in the cliff. One of the dragon banners lay against the stone not far from them. Up close it was in real danger of tearing free and being thrashed to nothing by the waves.

"I doubt I'll ever lay eyes on this city again," she replied softly. "The Masters are strangling it and the people are enslaved. Nothing has changed. It is as if I never was."

"Your destiny is not Yunkai," Jorah assured her. He took her gently by the arm and lifted it so that she was pointing down at the water. "Keep your eyes on those ships – they are yours," he whispered against her ear. "With these ships you'll sail to Westeros. They are your people, my queen. An empire waits for your return. It is not possible to rule the world – you must choose a corner."

Daenerys' eyes drifted close at his warm breath on her neck. "I choose Westeros," she murmured. "My father's crown. The throne of his conquered enemies. I have seen myself walk through the great hall..." Daenerys trailed off. In her dream the throne room was ash and snow tumbled in from the ruined ceiling. She feared what she'd find in Westeros – that her destiny was not the throne at all. Perhaps that was the true reason she'd lingered so long in Essos. Her eyes opened to the sea.

Jorah let his hands slide away. He took a step backwards, leaving the queen alone on the balcony with her thoughts.

He walked the cliff balcony, following up ruined steps and dangerous overhangs of steel framework. The view was spectacular but more than that – it was deserted. Solitude was precious and he drank it in, watching the seething waters beyond the gates. As soon as they crossed the ocean it was win or die. They could not come back from this.

A snow of red leaves drifted over him, racing past his shoulder and over the edge toward the waves far below. He turned and realised that he was standing beneath the dreaming tree. It was such a pathetic, gnarled looking creation with swollen roots forced out from the tiny cracks in the rock.

"I see you," he whispered, to whomever watched from the ghastly face carved into its trunk.


A shadow stirred on Yunkai's wall. Quaithe had been dreaming, watching the waves when a bear approached. His growl broke her from the vision and returned her to the failing desert sun. She whispered another thread of magic to the walls.


"I am not afraid of you," Daenerys purred at the air. Her silver dress curled around her, licked up the wind as if it were a dragon tail. Another figure had joined her on the balcony, watching her silently. It moved closer. "I know what you intend," she added, "for this city – for yourself. I will make no plans to stop you."

The old king's son, now a wealthy merchant, paused. This queen from across the sea stole that his birth rite was no queen to him. He fantasised about killing her – drawing his knife through her pale flesh and carving it from her bones. They'd won the city back from her once, why not again? "My ships for my city..." His nails were long, lacquered and curved into claws that scraped against the railing. "That is theft not trade."

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," she replied, slowly turning. The young prince was handsome but fierce. Vile she thought, as his eyes roamed her form.

"A true Targaryen would have. You are an echo, bouncing off the cliffs soon to be lost to the sea. We have a word for what you are -"

"-I'm sure you do," she cut him off. "The deal has been agreed. If you please, I'd like to be alone." A slide of metal – a quick step forward and he had pressed a dagger against her ribs. He'd stopped short of breaking the skin. This one enjoyed the power of threat. A kharl would have thrown her from the balcony for honour's sake. "Control yourself," she growled.

"Why?" He twisted the tip of the blade. "You are not a dragon. I could kill you now and keep your army, ships and the city. Why would I let you leave?"

"Because if you don't, you'll have to do all of that with your head separated from your shoulders," Daenerys replied coolly.

The prince felt the weight of a broad sword on his shoulder. Ser Jorah Mormont was behind him, levelling the sharp edge a breath from his artery. The prince did not move. "You know what they say about befriending wild animals... You can't."

"We neither of us are tame," Daenerys replied.

A moment later, a body tumbled over the rail. The flailing thing dropped quickly, clearing the cliffs before vanishing without a trace into the waves below.