THE BLACK WATERS OF SOTHORYOS

It was a twisted creation, tortured by the poisoned ground where its roots sank ever-deeper into the earth. Beneath black stone, they festered into a tangle of ash. Around its trunk rippled a silver sea. Ghost grass – stretching under the moonlight until its white shadows crashed against the mountains.

Asshai – where the edges of the world crumbled and folded, melted and surged into a nightmare. The mountains breathed smoke. At night, their innards glowed with flameless fire. The scale was unfathomable. Clinging to the edge of a dead sea was a city to dwarf those of Essos and Westeros combined. It lay in wait – slumbering under a fog of magic. Some whispered that it would be reborn after the snows, spread its wings and lurch into life like a wick catching flame.

Daenerys approached the solitary Weirwood tree. Although walking through a dream she knew that this particular tree was real. How had it come to be? This corner of the world was the spawn of fire. Life had no place here.

When she reached it, Daenerys heard the fog rattle in its dead branches. A ghoulish face peaked from the trunk, howling at the darkness. She reached forward, placing her palm to the wood.

A roar threw her back.

The Weirwood tree burst into flame, raging and burning in place of foliage. The heat burned off the grass and melted the stone, turning it into rivers of fire at her feet.

Something grabbed her hand, dragging her away.

"No!" she shrieked. There was something in those flames – a vision beyond her reach – it was important and terrible. "No – no!" The heat touched her skin. The fire crept closer. She grasped after it. "No!"

Whatever had her arm refused to let go. She was dragged mercilessly across the silver grass, over the rock and into the black waters of Asshai.


"Daenerys!" Jorah hauled the Dragon Queen from the burning boat. A mast hit the water beside them, smashing to bits on the rocks. It threw a surge of ocean at them, rousing the queen from her vision, salt and ash mingling on her lips. The thunder of the dying boats, waves and screams of Unsullied swimming to shore was interrupted by the screech of two dragons circling above.

The fleet had been pushed against the shallow rocks surrounding the coast during the storm. Several ships, including the queen's, had caught alight in the mayhem. They filled the early morning sky with flame like a beacon. Jorah prayed to whatever gods were listening that the waters snuffed the wreckage before passing pirates caught sight.

Sharp objects scraped against Daenery's feet under the waterline. Strong arms moved around her waist and lifted her, laying her body over a rock. Instinctively, the queen clung to it, holding steady against the wash. Jorah panted beside her, weighed down in full armour.

Varys was on shore surrounded by chests of his precious paperwork and a huddle of shaken ravens picking salt out of their plumage. The dwarf was laid on the pebbles with a solitary bottle of wine. The Unsullied were rescuing each other and salvaging what they could.

"The water is shallow and warm," Jorah managed between heavy breaths. "They're saving what they can from our ships. Whatever's not burned." He looked over at his queen. Jorah was still shaking. He'd pulled her straight from the heart of the flames. His arms were red from where he'd broken down a flaming wall. He'd never forget what he'd seen. The queen – arm outstretched – walking straight toward the flames. It was as though death was pulling her in. She'd survived the fire once but he wasn't convinced that it could be done again.

"Where are we?" she finally asked, her eyes on the water and the ruins of her fleet.

"South," Jorah replied. "Further than we meant to be. Either we've hit a random island or -"

"Or?" Her blood ran cold. She let go of the rock and stumbled through the water, letting the waves bring her closer to the Mormont prince standing against the tide. "The edge of the world?"

"We need to leave, soon as we can." Jorah reached for her hand as she approached, steadying her. "Come, out of the water." He gripped her tiny hands close.

On the shore, Tyrion was laughing. It didn't matter how many times the gods tried to kill him, he always floated to the surface, this time, quite literally. "What do you want with me?" he mumbled drunkly at the dawn. "Hmm? What is it? Just tell me so that I can do it already!"

"Hush!" Varys tossed a small pebble at the imp. "Do not tempt the gods and do not mistake luck with intent. You are alive – do not ask why."

"You people from the East – with your gods and your superstitions – you worry too much what the gods might think. For all your whispers you've overlooked the obvious. The gods aren't listening. They don't fucking care about the fate of you and me. They're an audience and we're the show. I'm going to fuck and drink my way to the end of this sordid tale. If I am to die, let it be with my cock in something worthwhile – like a bottle of fucking wine."

Varys was in the middle of sighing when the queen and her knight approached. He had the good grace not to notice that the queen's soaked gown hid nothing of her form and to his credit, the knight kept his eyes on the black shore. "My queen," Varys started. "Sit – please."

He pointed to one of the chests which would serve as a chair. She did while Jorah stood beside her, dripping from every piece of armour.

"What happened?"

"The storm, your grace. It was a thing of dead-man's eyes. We had no choice but to sail with it or risk complete destruction. A few hours ago we ran out of open water and hit the shores. Most of the fleet has moved around the edge there, to your left," he lifted his arm, pointing to the peninsula, "where there is a quiet sort of bay. The others are salvaging the damaged ships and their contents. Twelve are drowned, six missing presumed trapped or dead. We'll be here for a few days at least before we can regroup. We are lucky. Our losses are not as bad as they seem."

"And where is here?" she asked again, having found no true answer. There was something sinister on the air. The black shores reminded her of Asshai – comprised nearly entirely of melted rock that looked as if it had been spewed from the depths of a dragon's throat and rolled about in the seas. The major difference was the sheer ferocity of life around them. The rocks barely held the dense jungle back. It reared up at the shore, dropping a curtain of leaves and insects. Their shrill calls were alarming, as was the heat already soaking out of the sky. The ocean mist was quickly burning away, mixed with the smoke from her ruined ships.

"My queen, this is the great southern continent. Sothoryos." Varys added cautiously. "We shouldn't be here. It eats civilisation and strangles any gasp of man."

Her dragons landed behind them, sinking and stumbling in the pebbled shore, flapping their wings. They were unharmed snapping their teeth at the forest. For the moment, they settled down to dry off.


The irony wasn't lost on the queen. It seemed that she was condemned to spend her reign in a continuous cycle of wealth and abject poverty. How many times has she found herself taking shelter under a bundle of sticks and cloth on the outskirts of the world?

"You're calm, my queen," Melissandei sat beside her. She had raised, angry spots on her back. The insects were ravenous over the arrival of fresh meat.

"Am I? I suppose I am. You were not with me on the Red Waste – or in the Great Grass Sea. If struggle is the road to the throne of Westeros, then I am well travelled."

The Unsullied were using the corpses of fallen ships to build a raised platform on the shore. They would make camp for no more than a few days. Jorah was helping drag sails out of the water, laying them out on the beach to dry. His armour and shirt were discarded to dry. It was his pale skin that gave him away. Burned, she noticed, down one of his arms. A scout from the bay flashed signals with a mirror from the opposing cliff. The distant roar of a waterfall competed with the surf. Somewhere, not far from here, a river erupted from the dense jungle and drained into the salt.

"Varys says this place is full of ghosts and whispers," Melissandei added, scratching her arms. "The hunting parties want to head inland for food but he's held them back, insisting they fish."

"This used to be a habour," Dany replied. "Ser Jorah showed me though it is only from up here that I can see the collapsed wall. There-" she pointed out the vague arrangement of rocks running into the water. "Whatever killed this city is still here. We must tread softly or risk awaking old gods."

"Forgive me, that is not something you are known for."

The queen laughed softly. "You are not wrong. Despite Varys' aversion we must find water and that means -" She cast a meaningful look at the jungle.


"This is not ideal," Jorah spoke, for the first time since he'd followed his queen into the jungle. There was no need for him to specifically vocalise his opposition to the queen's current course – it was evident in the way he thrashed his sword at the endless web of leaves. Smash. Whack. Smash. "There are three other scouting parties out here looking for water. The -" Whack! This time it was his hand against his shoulder, murdering the largest insect he'd ever seen. "-the beach would be safer."

The queen, now wrapped in a dark brown shawl and changed into her Dothraki clothes, was undeterred. "We're not looking for water, Ser," she replied. They were alone, with the noise of the beach behind them. It was midday but the canopy beat the sun into the faintest of light, seeping in between the cracks above.

"Tell me that we're not looking for Yeen." His queen was silent – universal for trouble. "Why?"

"Something Varys said."

"You shouldn't place too much stock in what Varys says. He says what is necessary, not always what is true."

"I don't doubt it but if it stills your sword, he advised against exploring the forest."

"Then what did he say to make you come in here, my queen?"

"Nothing. He refused to speak of this place."

"You have been tempted by silence."

Jorah overtook her, cutting through a thick tangle of vines before lifting her tiny body onto a boulder. She scrambled over it and held his sword so that he could follow. When they were standing on the other side, the queen looked softly at her knight, handing him the heavy blade. "This place is hiding something," she replied. "I feel it. My dreams are blurring into visions. I see things – while I'm awake – a shimmer on the waves, a shadow against the jungle."

"It is known that certain places hold more magic than others," his voice dropped to a whisper. "I do not believe the magic here is yours. Your dragons – they sleep too much by the water, as though they are tamed. And you – whatever the magic here, I fear it tried to entice you to-"

"To what?" she stopped him, cold Targaryen eyes on him.

Jorah's gaze dropped. "I..."

The dragon queen brushed her fingertips over the seared flesh on his arm. The salt had helped but there was still heat burning under the surface. She closed her eyes, letting the warmth draw out of her his arm and through her body. Jorah groaned. It felt as though she were setting his flesh aflame. He moved to escape her hold but Daenerys laid another hand on him.

He collapsed to he knees, dragging her with him. His vision was white – snow or fire. They were the same.

"Daenerys – please!" he begged. Jorah canted backwards, hitting the ground.

Then it was over.

The pain was gone. The forest returned. He opened his eyes and found his queen kneeling with him amongst the decayed leaves.

"There," she whispered, touching his face this time. "I told you, I can do things here..."

"Daenerys..." he dared utter her name. The burns were gone from his flesh. "You are not a healer. You are a Dragon. Whatever this is, you are borrowing it."

"Why is the world fixed on fire and ice?" she replied, caressing his fresh skin. "In my visions, I have seen more than two powers wrestling over the world. The ancient songs are full of gods and magic. Your people know this. The North has its own songs. When one magic awakened, surely the others stirred?"

"My queen..." Jorah reached up, placing his hand gently over the one she had on his face. "If all the gods are stirring, we'd do best to keep quiet."

"Something connects this place with Asshai," she insisted. "The secrets buried here are important. We are wrecked on this shore for a reason. Now, will you help me look or not?"

Jorah exhaled warily. There was no point arguing with a dragon. They had will of their own and means enough to follow them.


Tyrion smeared the innards of a flying insect over his neck. He recoiled at the remains, wiping them off on his tattered clothes. "This is a cursed place!" He complained. The heat was unbearable. The camp had been forced to edge closer to the forest, trading shade for an onslaught of hungry, winged demons. It was the noise more than the bites that was enough to drive a man crazy. It was constant – the filthy hum of life.

Varys was beneath a large sheet of netting. "It reminds me of Lys," he replied. "During the summers we had plagues come out of the lemon orchards. There is nothing to be done. The heat though – it cannot get any worse."

"I am sweating wine."

"Which explains why you're the favourite meal of our winged friends," Varys teased him. "We need to move away from this canopy before nightfall and back onto the beach."

"You really are afraid of this place..."

"There are no whispers from here," he replied. "No knowledge at all. If there is one thing that I dislike in this world – it is the unknown."

Without warning, the ground beneath them began to shake. Pebbles rattled together, trees shook, birds fled to the sky in startled wails. Tyrion's wine bottle fell, smashing on the rocks. The imp sat up, startled. As quickly as it began, the shaking stopped. "Earthquake?"

"Must be."

"I've read of them," Tyrion added, "but not felt any myself. The grounds at Kings' Landing are stable."

"Another reason to make our visit brief. I've heard plenty of tales regarding islands and earthquakes."

"How did those whispers end?" the dwarf asked.

"Silence."


"Are you all right?" The queen had fallen. Jorah was not far behind, pulling her off the ground. They were covered in leaves and startled bugs dislodged by the sudden quake.

"No – wait," she stopped him, dropping back to her knees. Her fingers were greasy. She rubbed them together but the film would not come off her skin. She brushed away the leaves and dirt, revealing a black expanse of stone. It was horrible to the touch, leaving another layer of vile residue on her hands. Still, she smiled.

"My queen-" Jorah nodded at the jungle ahead. Scattered through the trees were more blocks of black stone – some clearly covered in strange markings. Each one burrowed out a hole in the foliage. They were at the edge of some lost world.

"Yeen," Daenerys murmured, standing.