WHITE SHADOWS
A Targaryen banner, torn free of Yunkai's failing ocean gates, floated in the choppy waters of Slaver's Bay. The salt leached its cheap dye while the depths beckoned, wave upon wave. On the third day it slipped below the surface, lost forever with the souls of pirates, slaves and masters of old. It draped over their bones – barely a song. A few bars... A whisper. Perhaps all dragons would meet their end beneath the waves, swallowed as the oceans took Valyria. The water yearned for the flames. The fires taunted the swelling tides. Smoke and salt mingled, destroyed and destroying the burnt edges of the world.
Daenerys dreamed of boiling oceans and snow set alight.
"What do you see?"
Jorah felt the soft rumble of his father's voice beside him.
Jeor Mormont was an uncommonly large man, draped in furs and steel with bear signets sewn into the weathered leather. The elder Mormont liked to hunt. He found peace in the silence. His son found something else – a half thought left imprinted on the snow. Old magic. It was entangled in every crevice of Bear Island. Jorah had always been able to sense it, like a stain on the world. It may as well have been his mother's blood lost to the tides.
"Snow," Jorah replied. "Forests of pine. Cliffs that refuse the encroaching ice." He shifted his gaze to the gap between the forest. The sea hung there and beyond that... "The Far North."
"You remember it?"
Jorah nodded. He was barely a young man. "As long as I live, I'll remember those shores."
"The rest of the world has forgotten what lies beyond The Wall. I dare say those frozen things have not forgotten us. They're waiting for the snow to blow south and cover the Summer Isles. When it does, they'll come out and find us. They'll bring the dead. We'll look those we loved in the eye and see The North and all that lay forgot. The true North. The old magic. Fire and ice. They meet in the realms of man. It is the cataclysm of birth and destruction. One era cannot begin without the obliteration of the last. The North remembers." Jeor set his pale eyes on the view. "The North remembers when there were forests in the snow."
Jorah let his fingers run over the sharp edge of his father's sword. Valyrian steel. It would be his one day. "I can feel the cold coming," he admitted. "It's building, like the first of the winter storms, only worse."
"I know. Not long now." His father agreed. Jeor's filthy rave dipped his wings into the snow, tossing it over his feathers.
The two men looked to each other. Normal men should not be able to feel magic shifting but there was something in the blood of the old Northern houses and the Mormonts were one of the oldest.
"Who are you talking to?"
Jorah startled at Tyrion's voice. He gripped the railing beneath his hand and realised that he was standing on the deck of a ship, rocking with the turbulent waters of Slaver's Bay while a summer storm grazed the edge of the horizon, threatening them with another rough night. A fork of lightening hit the sea. "No one."
"Someone, I think," Tyrion approached, although he was given no indication that his company was welcome. "I've been watching you for a while. You and the dragon queen are not so different. I suspect you both hear foul voices on the air."
Silence. Jorah didn't share the lion's need to speak of private matters.
Tyrion shrugged, undeterred. "I knew an oracle once – not a very good one, mind you," he added quickly with a grin. "If memory serves she was mostly a whore but she had her moments."
Charming. Jorah continued to watch the storm. The sky was darkening near the waves while the sun crept toward it. A rumble caught up with the boat, making the wood beneath his hand tremble. The world would be dark before it's time tonight. "Is there any way to stop you speaking short of throwing you overboard?"
"One night," the dwarf continued, entirely unaffected by the knight's lack of interest, "she lit two candles in the middle of the tent. One white, one black. She promised that the sky would catch fire before the year died."
"You drink too much." If only his tent had caught fire and saved the world a lot of trouble.
"Always," Tyrion assured him. "That was the year your queen's dragons were born." Jorah turned. When he straightened to his full height, Tyrion remembered how easy it had been for the knight to drag him onto that boat. He could kill him here, on the deck of the ship, if he really wanted to. The only protection Tyrion had in the world was the queen's curiosity, nothing more. "All the whispers in the world are starting to come together," he added, taking a step toward the Mormont prince. "Are they growing louder? I'd wager they keep you awake at night."
"None that make sense," he finally admitted.
"I can think of someone who'd like to hear them. A 'master of whispers'. Perhaps he can make sense of them."
The world assumed Varys was born for the royal court. They didn't understand that his present position was a convenience. His talents were meant for something more grand than king making.
"Come in." Varys's cabin was small, tucked away in the centre of the ship where there were no windows or light save the lanterns he kept burning. He sat behind a desk scarred from battle. One corner had been roughly sliced off by a broadsword and the edge nearest his writing elbow had a steel arrow head stuck deep in the grain. It caught on his sleeve, tearing loose threads from the silk always accompanied by an scowl. "Ah yes," he continued, when he saw the knight bow his head to fit through the small doorway, "Tyrion mentioned that you'd be dropping by. Close the door."
That was presumptuous of him, thought the knight. He closed the door and waved away the ill-smelling air, thick with lantern smoke. At least there were no birds down here. He'd never trusted them. His father had a raven once. The filthy thing always had its eye on the world.
"Well, this is very odd," Varys set his quill down. He'd been writing in a thin journal. It was a ratty thing despite its obvious value – as though it had been carried over many years. "We've spoken often, these last ten years."
Even the memory of those letters made Jorah flinch with disgust.
"I have made you uncomfortable," Varys offered the knight a seat, which he took warily. "For what it's worth, I never acted against your queen. Indeed, your letters proved quite useful in keeping her alive."
"That's hardly the point."
"I suppose not," he accepted. "She does have a touch of destiny about her. I remember when I first laid eyes on her."
"You are from Lys," interrupted Jorah. "I assume by the care you take to shave your head that you have the trademark blonde locks. It's rather a give away. Part-dragon... The world thinks the Targaryens are gone but in some corners their bastards thrive."
It was Varys's turn to look unsettled. "Those are only stories."
Jorah leaned across the table, his leather armour creaking. "True ones..." he whispered. "There is talk of these dragons," Jorah's eyes were suddenly dangerous. "The fire in their blood runs hot. Daenerys is not the only wandering reptile in search of a throne."
There was a long silence between the two men in which Jorah's fingers brushed the hilt of his sword and a bead of sweat rolled down the back of Varys's bald head, vanishing into the silk layers of his robe.
"You have me wrong, Mormont," Varys lowered his voice, leaning forward. "If I'd wanted the throne I could have had it long ago and left your child-queen in the sand to rot. She is no half-breed. Daenerys Stormborn is the only dragon left alive with a claim the noble houses will support. I've spent half my life bringing her here. I assure you, it wasn't to stumble on the shore."
Something, Jorah couldn't quite place it but there was more to Varys than a grand plot of succession. "When you say that you have no interest in the throne I believe you," Jorah admitted. "Now, why did you really want to see me?"
"It's not for the pleasure of your company, I assure you."
Jorah leaned back in the chair, all of his leather and steel creaking threateningly.
"You are a Mormont prince," Varys continued. "Tradition dictates that you've been to the frozen lands in the Far North, beyond the stretch of the Great Wall. You have the same look as your father."
"You've met my father?"
"Bears have a weakness for dragons," he replied. "I suspect it's because they know what's coming. Tell me, what are these whispers you hear?"
"I only hear them when the world is quiet," he admitted. "In the snow. When the wind gets in the pines and the salt carries up from the water. They're – not words. It's the cracking of glass. A hideous sound."
Varys was afraid. He froze.
"What?" Jorah prompted.
"Don't you know?" Varys turned the wick up on his lantern as if the extra light might protect them.
"...know what?"
"The breath of a Whitewalker."
Daenerys lifted her arm. Her hand maidens sponged the dead prince's blood from her skin. It had been a few months since she'd killed directly. She preferred it to killing with words. There had been so much death in her reign – the execution of the masters, victims of the plague and the poor souls her dragons saw fit to tear apart.
She flinched suddenly when one of them touched her wrist. There were bruised fingermarks on her pale skin where Jorah had pulled her back from the edge. She hadn't realised how close she'd come to being dragged over the rail and into the ocean. The queen picked up her glass and drank more wine. Missandei disapproved.
"You drink like the dwarf," she said, taking over from the ladies.
Daenerys dismissed them before replying to her adviser. "I have more cause than most."
"Wine won't bring him back, my queen."
Daenerys set the goblet down. "He's not dead."
"Even if he is alive, you'll never see Daario again."
If Missandei had been a Dothraki she would have finished with, it is known. "I could take this fleet and sail east... They're my ships."
Missandei sighed, sitting back, bloodied rag in her hand. "Even if you did – which you can't – Essos is vast. He must find you, my queen. It is the only way. If he is alive, he will."
Until then, she was supposed to what – to wait? To move on? She didn't know.
"It's no good," Missandei added later, trying to brush the blood out of the dragon's silver hair. "We'll have to wash it. You look as though you've wandered straight out off the Great Grass Sea."
"Perhaps I should keep it like that when I walk into Westeros."
The woman gave her queen a worried look. It was crucial she didn't come off as mad, violent or marauding.
"Still only two?" Tryion asked.
He and Varys were watching the pair of dragons play above the ship in the warm winds. They wove about, stretching their wings. Whenever they drew close enough the wind filled with sharp clicking sounds as they snapped at passing gulls. They'd never moved to touch any of the ships. Instead they fished and vanished back to the land to hunt when it suited them.
"Don't worry. If a dragon was dead in this world, I'd have heard."
"I'm not sure if I should be pleased or not," Tryion admitted. "Dragons are – well – they were hell... If the stories are true, I'm not sure anyone should have dragons."
"We're going to need them, you in particular if you wish to remain alive. All of Westeros wants your head."
"That is ungenerous... Some people are quite pleased with one less Lannister in the world."
"Indeed. They'll be more pleased to lose another."
Tyrion drank again. These little chats that he had with Varys never made him feel much better. He should have stayed in that wonderful bar, drinking himself into a puddle of oblivion.
Varys snatched the cup out of his hand. "No. You and I have work before we cross the sea."
When the storm finally hit, it tossed the fleet over the peaks and troughs of monstrous surges. The dragons, afraid of the cracks of lightning, landed on the deck of the queen's ship. They scared the living hell out of Jorah, who'd been helping the crew fasten rigging.
"Easy – easy!" he lifted his hand to Drogon's snout. Jorah locked eyes with the creature. It stared back with fire from the torches catching the depths of its pupils. Eventually it made a pained sound and backed toward an overhang to find shelter. Its sibling did the same until they were an indeterminate tangle of scales.
"We can't hold this course!" The captain leaned over the railed, calling to the queen's guard below.
Jorah spun, rigging wrapped around his arm. Rain beat against his face. "What?"
"Can't hold her!" Sails were tearing. The rain was almost an ocean in and of itself. "We must head South or it'll shred the ship around us!"
The rest of the fleet had to maintain course with the lead ship. Jorah looked around at the ocean of bobbing lights. The nearest ship to him was listing with every gust of wind, its decks almost touching the water's edge when the waves picked it up. If they looked anything like that, it wouldn't be long until the storm drowned them all.
"Turn her, then!" Jorah agreed. He left the deck, sinking below into the belly of the ship. He was soaked through, bringing some of the storm with him as he approached the queen's quarters. Many below deck were ill from the rough seas, sitting against walls or collapsed over buckets. The air was putrid and the danger very real. Sinking in these waters was almost certain death.
Missandei opened the door – though Jorah barely recognised her. The sea did her no graces. He took her by the shoulders and set her down in a chair without a word. Missandei gave no protest. Jorah found the queen on her bed. It was the safest place while the rest of the room moved around them. Objects tumbled over the floor, furniture rolled like leaves. She had the only lantern in her hands, the burning glass against her palms.
"My queen, we are heading South to save the ships until the storm passes." He had to reach up, taking hold of the top of the bed as another wave hit and set the ship on a sharp tilt. Water poured off him, hissing against the lantern's glass. "Two of your dragons are on the deck, taking shelter."
She looked – lost. "I can't see through this storm," she whispered. "Does it end here – in the middle of the waves? In silence, slipping away. Is this how the story finishes?"
Jorah's gaze was stern. "No, my queen. Your story ends in Westeros. You have seen it in the House of the Undying. The water gods have no stomach for the fire."
The only fate Daenerys saw in the House of the Undying was snow. "Stay..." she reached up to him. Her pale hand was steady but her eyes trembled.
He took her hand and nodded. "As you wish."
The Drowned God and the Storm God warred outside, scratching at the thin veneer separating them.
CINNAMON STRAITS
Daario was focused on the black claw churning in the Western sky. A storm that had been raging all night was starting to fade. He'd heard stories about the Summer Seas but never had he dreamed the ruthless violence whipped up in a moment and thrown at the world. It was no wonder that the ancient gods took root in these lands. The people were afraid. Of the skies. Of the seas. Of what lurked in the corner of their eye.
"By the end of today, it will be as lovely as a song," one of the pirates said, leaning against the rail with Daario. She was at least a head taller than him, all arms, legs and muscle.
Living among these giants, Daario was beginning to understand how Tyrion felt. Having no physical power left only his mind to survive on and he lacked the skills of the dwarf. "What happens if one of those hits us?"
The pirate winked. "We run," she replied. "The ancient rulers have lost entire armies to the waves. Some say it is how the gods give their blessing. Do not worry, there are fewer storms in these waters. They are shallow and warm. Our death will come from banks of coral or monsters of the deep, curious enough to nudge our hulls."
Daario would rather a storm.
The waters of the Cinnamon Strait smelled faintly of spice. It lapped against the hull with thin lines of foam. In the sun it was more green than blue. He was told by the pirates that by the time they passed Great Moraq the waters would be like that of a forest. Then he'd know they were in the Jade Sea. There were other ships here too but they kept their distance from the pirate envoy. The peace was shaky at best. So long as the pirates did not destroy the trade route, they were allowed safe passage.
"Where are we going? You haven't said..."
"Your queen wants to take Westeros – to reclaim her throne and rule over the seven kingdoms. We support this on the understanding of significant spoils in the future war however..."
"There's always an, 'however'."
"Your queen will not be successful without a relic left in Essos. It is not well known, even among my company. I had to be sure that you were telling the truth. The constant escort of your dragon leads me to believe that you are."
"I don't understand – what relic?"
"Prophecies may be lost to the West but here, in the East they are whispered to every child. There's another war coming that will make our leadership scrambles tussles in the dark. A great ruler from the East travelled West once before to fight. It is happening again. You've heard of the sword that brings the dawn?"
Bits and pieces. Never as much as he should. "The mythical sword that destroys Whitewalkers. Sure."
"A stone from its hilt rests in Yin."
Daario laughed heartily. "There are supposed relics scattered all over the world. I hear that they are immensely useful in raising a bit of revenue from poor, deluded pilgrims. Desert cities have little else to survive on."
"I assure you, this is real."
"Even if it was, we're one mythical sword short of actually having one."
"There is no secret to that. It is safe – in good hands but it is powerless without the stone."
"So, wait – let me get this straight," Daario turned to face the pirate, resting against the rail. "You're sailing all the way to Yin to pick up a stone and then you're going to take me back to the queen?"
"If we survive..."
"And you're doing it for – money."
The woman smiled, her teeth shockingly white against her dark lips. "Pirate."
Well Daario couldn't fault her logic there. "This – stone," Daario continued. "I presume we can't simply stroll up and ask to borrow it?"
"The stone is the most beloved possession of the Emperor. He believes it to be the heart of his power – and uncommonly long years."
Daario flinched. That'd be a no then.
