TEARS of LYS
"By the old gods and the new..." Varys whispered, clutching the rail as the queen's ship entered the bay.
It approached the beach, venturing into the shallow waters until the anchors dragged. Smoke lifted from the stones, mixing with the salt water as the tide came in. There were bodies everywhere with bright, feathered spears sticking out from the burned flesh. Varys held his silk-clad arm over his face to stifle the wreak of death.
The brindled men had fled and the dragons were gone.
They searched the shore for hours, waving off gulls that landed to pick through the corpses. Grey Worm finished with his final pile of blackened bones. He heard a rush of wings as soon as he turned. "They're not here," he announced, approaching Varys and Missendai who had come ashore to see the horror for themselves. "The queen, Jorah and the small lion. Not among the dead."
"Taken then?" Varys asked. "Into the forest by the savages?"
Grey Worm shook his head. "They kill where they stand. If the bodies are not here then -" He looked to the sky. "Do you think, the dragons?"
Drogon had saved his queen once, why not again? Burned the beach and fled with her...
"Wait..." Missendai drew away from them, hurrying toward the edge of the waves where a small body was crawling out of the water. "Tyrion!"
Tyrion coughed up half the ocean, most of the rocks and a few old dragon bones. He'd escaped the dragons' flames by diving into the waves and letting the waters take him, dragging him out in a rip as he watched the men on shore burn – brindled and Unsullied alike. The dragons saw no difference. They revelled in their own fire, tossing men about in the air and breaking them on the rocks to soften the flesh. It was pure violence. Fire and blood.
"I'm okay," Tyrion pushed Missendai's soft hands away. Water poured from his leathers as he waded from the waves. They crashed against his back, threatening to take him back into the depths. "The gods have no interest in killing me," he assured her. "May as well go to war stark naked with a crown of flowers. Hell, if I drink enough of the rum aboard I might just try it." That earned him one of her disapproving stares.
"Did you see what happened?" Varys asked urgently, moving as close as he could without entering the waves.
"Did I s-" Tyrion's eyes bulged, "-oh I saw. I saw two dragons have a field day with our friends over there. They landed in front of the queen and sprayed a wall of fire at anything that moved. Jorah fought off a few that made it by the dragons but most fled as soon as the creatures arrived. Even when they were gone the dragons didn't stop. They turned on the queen's men. She screamed at them to stop but they wouldn't. You know dragons. They like a good barbecue."
"But where is the queen?" Varys lifted his voice in frustration.
"Picked up in Drogon's claws – Jorah in Rhaegal's. Then they took off, that way." Tyrion pointed. "Whoever thought they could tame dragons was mad."
"Well, they were Targaryens," Varys pointed out dryly.
"True. There's a big difference between the dragons I read about and those teenage monsters. I'm not sure I want to see them loose on a city."
"They require training and if my little birds speak truth, those dragons didn't have the best start in life."
"How are we going to get the queen back?" Missandei asked, picking seaweed off Tyrion through his constant objections.
"There is no point worrying about it," Varys seemed resigned. "The dragons will eventually return the queen to us. We, however, follow the plan. Repair the fleet. Sail for Braavos. If we stop, time will move on without us. The game waits for no one."
"Without the queen?" Tyrion stammered. "That's going to down well when we sail into the free cities. A slave, eunuch and dwarf come to lead an army..."
"The queen will be there when we reach Braavos." Varys assured him.
"How can you possibly know that?"
"Because if she's not back by then she's almost certainly dead. If she's dead then all the songs they've been singing since the sun set on the last dawn are false. I refuse to believe that the gods would be so careless." Or that his entire life's work was a waste. Varys would sooner throw himself in the sea than accept that.
Tyrion was laughing. "Oh Varys, I had you pegged as a rational man but all your nuts are in there." He indicated at Vary's smooth skull. "Good man!" He slapped the spider on the back.
Missandei and Grey Worm shared a concerned look, possibly questioning how they'd ended up on the fringes of the world with a spider and dwarf.
An ocean of green. Green in every direction. The strip of blue water was left far behind, faded into nothing. Jorah's waist was painfully constricted by Rhaegal's clawed foot. His sharp talons left scratches in the steel but honestly Jorah preferred that to being dropped. Every now and then he caught a shadow of black to his left. Drogon.
Rhaegal banked sharply right. Jorah gasped as the world spun underneath. The sea was back, far behind and a grey range of smouldering mountains approached. The dragons were flying towards the heat, far beyond the edges of the map.
"Gods..." Jorah muttered to himself. There was no point protesting in the grasp of a dragon.
He couldn't deny that the rush of air on his face and the ground far below was exhilarating. No wonder the Targareyn's spent half their time wrangling dragons, plucking their eggs out of the flame and raising them as pets. All that trouble for a moment of this.
Hours later, the pair of beasts landed on a mountain peak, jutting out from the beginning of a huge slash across the earth. They landed gently – opening their feet to lay their passengers onto the rock before flapping around, picking a perch. They snapped playfully at each other then settled down to preen.
Jorah and Dany tumbled over the rock, landing almost atop one another. Jorah caught the queen before she could roll too far, grasping at her clothes until she stilled. Her golden hair blew over his face. Then she turned, eyes burning as if jewels were set there. They lay there for a while, unwilling to move. Clouds rolled over head. The breeze was tainted by something sour. Everything was foreign.
A flame roared over head. The heat burned. Jorah turned, pushing the queen beneath the waves. The water rushed over, slamming their bodies into the rocks below. Then fire again. The roar of dragons. Screams and arrows. Another wave.
Jorah sat up, holding his head. Pain shot through his calf. He grimaced and straightened his leg out, turning it around to see a gaping arrow hole, dirtied with sand and blood. He had nothing to wash it with. All he could do was tear at what was left of his shirt and bind the wound with the faintly yellow fabric. In a few days that was going to get a lot worse.
"We're stranded," he started, staggering to his feet. They were at the start of the largest mountain range in the world. A little further on the bare tops of the rock became ice and further still, they stretched beyond the clouds. Who knew how tall they were or if any living thing had seen their reach. To one side were the lush jungles and swamps of Sothoryos. A thick river snaked across, diving the land, heading toward the sea. Speckled in between were remnants of black cities, dozens of them – a whole civilisation consumed by the jungle. It would be madness to descend into that green hell. Impossible to navigate and full of the most wicked, forgotten things.
The other side wasn't much better. Jorah stumbled over to the edge, holding onto a few unstable boulders as he peered into a grey wasteland. He could have sworn it was built from ash. Yellow ponds boiled, giving rise to filthy smoke that also leaked from fissures. In the distance was a narrow sort of swamp that might have been a shallow sea lapping at the black lands of...
"Asshai..." he breathed.
Dany stood at those words and moved beside him. It was not the glamorous place of magic she'd pictured in her dreams. It was – dead. Poisoned by magic. Quaithe's words whispered in her ear. "That is our way forward."
Jorah didn't agree. "It is further than it looks, my queen and we have no provisions. I doubt we'd make it down from this mountain unless you convince the dragons to help us."
They both looked at the dragons. They were asleep. The smaller, green dragon had nudged his snout under Drogon's wing for protection. Dragons. The most unreliable mode of transport ever created. Give him a loyal horse any day.
"We'll starve if we stay here," he admitted, giving the drop a better look. He returned from the edge, dismayed. Both ways would kill them, of that he was sure. "You can choose how we die," he added. "Chased through the forest by flesh eating natives or starved to death in the grey desert."
The dragon queen was not afraid. She perched at the edge of the peak, her back to the forests. She set her sights on Asshai. "I've survived worse deserts than this."
Jorah eyed the waste uneasily. He had no sword – it had fallen in the water when the dragon picked him up. The only weapons he had left were a few knives and one small Dothraki blade lashed to his belt. Dany had nothing at all – except a couple of ambivalent dragons.
"All right," he finally agreed, giving her one of his hunting knives. "On the condition that we camp tonight. There should be water scattered in the cliffs as we head down and we'll need as many hours of daylight as the gods will grant us."
"You worry more than any bear I've met," she noted, resting her hand on his shoulder.
"Then you've not met any bears, khaleesi," he replied. "I assure you, they are cautious and quiet. You could walk right by one and never know." Not like dragons. They were in a constant to and fro with her pushing forward and him pulling back, one toward the cliff and the other from the fall.
Too tired to make a camp, they picked out smooth rocks, warmed by the sun and laid down to sleep with the dragons. At least there were no insects here and it would be a foolish creature indeed who would approach two slumbering demons.
Dragons that were gone when they woke with the first light.
WINTERFELL – THE NORTH
Wolves howled in the dark. The world was impenetrable. Half the sky was full of stars, the other clogged by a storm dumping random sheets of snow over the world. Smoke, pressed down by the cold, swirled around Brienne's waist in a sickening, black tide.
She'd left the safety of the wood and was making her way toward the servants' entrance of Winterfell. Fresh bodies hung from the wall, dripping blood faster than the fresh snow could cover it. Crows braved the night, perching on the flayed men, picking at their eyes. The party inside was beginning to die. She could hear drunken singing from within and the smash of bottles against stone.
One poor figure, covered in rags, crouched at the entrance as Bolton's men took turns beating him. He didn't offer any protest and only shuffled a step at a time, gradually moving away from his attackers. Brienne, hidden by an old scrap of hessian, moved closer – ready to draw her sword on them.
"Don't..." a small voice called from behind.
Brienne spun to see two figures following her. One, a cowering man in worse condition than the poor servant and the other, Sansa Stark with a dirty rage of auburn hair and pale, Northern skin. "Sansa!" she hissed, and all three retreated to the stables amongst the horses.
They were alone with dozens of bloodied animals stripping the hay off the floor. The Boltons were as cruel to their animals as they were to the men.
"I came for you," Brienne started, offering food to both of them. "As promised. I waited for a candle in the window but it never came."
Podrick returned, sidling in through the horses with a sack full of stolen bread. "Best I could do," he apologised, handing the misshapen, burned loaves out. He sat beside Brienne, comically small against her frame.
"You don't know what it was like," Sansa started, clutching onto the bread, scraping it with her nails. "Ramsay's a monster – worse than an animal. Worse than the filth the animals make."
"And you?" Brienne turned her attention to Sansa's companion. "I know you, I think."
It took Theon a few goes to manage his name. Podrick leaned over to whisper against Brienne's ear, filling her in on the trials of the North. "And he's with you?" she asked Sansa, letting her make the choice.
"He is," she agreed. "We escaped together. We're heading for The Wall. I've got three brothers out there but only one nearby."
"Not Baelish?"
Sansa's look turned fierce, like the eyes of a wolf. "He sold me to the Boltons to be wed, raped and tortured. If I see him again it'll be at the end of my brother's sword."
"Fair enough," Brienne agreed. "North then, to The Wall for all the good it will do. There are stories coming out of Castle Black that would turn any man's flesh could." She nearly said, 'Jamie' but remembered that the Lannisters and Starks had enough bad blood to fill the Sapphire Isle. "They were read at court. I heard a few. Your brother is Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."
"If you didn't come for me – why are you here? It took months to escape the castle and you're trying to break in?"
"The lake – in the forest."
Whatever Sansa had been expecting, it wasn't that. "Beneath the bleeding tree?"
"The same. It boiled tonight – water too hot to touch. Has that happened before?"
Sansa shook her head but it was Theon that found his voice. "Never. My brother – I mean, Rob," he shifted uncomfortably. "Rob Stark joked that Winterfell was built on the corpse of a dragon. We used to go searching through the crypts at night – got ourselves a terrible hiding from the maester when he found us."
"That's true," Sansa added. "You could hear them wail in their rooms for hours after."
"We did no such thing!" The old Theon flickered through for a moment. Slowly, he was coming back to the world. "There are hot springs inside the castle but not at the tree. They're all around the walls and a pool inside."
"It's a tomb," Brienne continued. "To your ancestor, Brandon the Breaker from thousands of years ago. Forgotten, I imagine. The North is very old, full of lost things. Can you get me into Winterfell?"
Sansa went cold. The faint colour in her cheeks left and she instinctively reached for Theon's hand. They sat so close to each other that they were nearly one person – two shattered half-lings looking for a way back to the world. "You can't. I won't..." She started to cry.
"Sansa," Briene shifted closer. "You were a child here. Children can sneak into anything. How do you sneak into Winterfell?"
It wasn't through the front gates, or the servant's entrance. Sansa and Theon took Brienne and her squire back into the forest. It was dark but the moon had forced its way through the clouds, lighting the snow which glowed. Sansa paused to watch. When the screaming stopped it was as if nothing had changed. The great castle looming on the flat – the mountains behind and the infinite sky. The North. She'd rather be a mouse here than a queen in the South.
"Here," Theon stepped ahead, pushing aside a bit of scrub. Beneath it lay a narrow entrance to a cave. Buried beside were old torches which they lit. Brienne was last and struggled with the space, her armour scraping against the walls until it opened out into a passage where they could stand. "There are tunnels like this all through the North," Theon added. "In every castle. Through the hills. Under The Wall, they say. Built by the children of the forest."
Brienne thought it looked natural. She'd seen similar tunnels in her home city which was built on limestone and constantly washed away into grotesque cathedrals of stone. Oceans made caves like this, not children. "And these lead into Winterfell?"
"Oh aye," Theon replied. "The Boltons haven't found them. If they had I'd know."
They followed the tunnels. Every now and then they crossed a discarded toy. Generations of Stark children had played in their depths. A morbid place to raise a child. Soon, Podrick paused and pointed upward, indicating the faint sound of music. They must be inside the castle walls. Brienne nodded and they continued in silence. The temperature rose. Water dripped down the rock which eventually turned to stone. Vines grew, tangling over the pathway. Then, a sarcophagus.
"My father..." Sansa approached it, resting her hand tenderly on the case. It was new, unblemished by age. His likeness lay atop, more peaceful than he'd ever been in life. Ned Stark – the last king of Winterfell. "Our maester buried him here to hide the tunnel. He knew what was coming. He – he tried to protect us but the Boltons killed him too." Sansa leaned into Theon. "The Lannisters made me watch. I saw his head come off. Jeoffrey took me to the wall outside the palace and made me look at my father's head on a spike." The same head that was now in the crypt. "Petyr gave him to my mother."
Brienne felt sick. "The springs?" she cleared her throat.
"Yes..."
Sansa moved in front and led the party through the darkness. There was no one down here other than the odd rat. When they reached the oldest tomb, Sansa squeezed around the crypt and, like her father's, pushed aside the mess of vines to reveal a passage. This one was narrow and cracked. They were heading down again but this time there was a wind tugging at their torches caused by the warm air rushing to escape.
"Gods..." Theon whispered, as they reached the bottom. They tunnel ended in a large, flat stone floor with a square pool in the middle. The room was normally bare except for a few runes on the walls left by the First Men. He and the Stark boys made it their hideaway for many years. "What – is – that?"
Part of the wall on the far side had been knocked through. It lay in a crumble on the floor, spilling into the boiling pool of water that looked like the inside of their cook's cauldron. Visible behind the hole in the world was the snout of some enormous, silver creature. It was breathing slowly in sleep – steam lifting from nostrils the size of wolves.
Brienne spread her arms protectively in front of them. "A dragon," she whispered. "And I think it's waking up."
ESSOS - LYS
286 AC
Before Illyrio set sail for Braavos, Jeor Mormont took him him down to the docks where the waves crashed against the windows of a squalid bar. Built from the bedrock, there was music and loose women, gyrating through the patrons. A man could disappear into the rush of colour, even Illyrio.
Jeor didn't touch the rancid ale. He was more interested in his companion. "The children?" he asked.
"Settling in well enough," Illyrio replied, drinking his second mug. He'd had worse. "They like the water. Odd, for dragon children. How many years have you raised them?"
"More than a few," Jeor replied. Enough for him to be attached. The old bear sighed and looked out the window toward the sea. Spray misted in as another wave crashed against the shore. The stench of incense was overpowering. He hated the spices in the air and instead longed for that cold, silent shore. "I've not changed my mind," he assured Illyrio. "Actually, I have a gift for them. Will you keep it safe until they come of age?"
"Does Varys know?" Jeor shook his head. Illyrio leaned in with renewed interest. "Now you have me. There are not many things that escape his notice. Spider, we call him – think the name might stick."
Jeor nodded to the floor. There was a large, leather bag laying at their feet. Illyrio bent down, rustling with the clasps. Jeor picked at a few dried figs while the other man inspected the contents. When Illyrio sat back up, his eyes were wide.
"Those real?" he asked. "Of course they are... You're not the kind of man to seed false hope."
"When it's time," Jeor insisted. "And not before."
Illyrio promised. Three dragon eggs – enough to start a war.
"Poor little things – tossed from shore to shore," Varys said unkindly.
Jeor Mormont had himself wrapped up in a great fur shawl despite the temperate weather. Bears, Southerners would never understand them. This time Jeor was drinking Varys' wine while the eunuch packed. It sounded daft and soft but he missed the bright eyes and innocent smiles of the little ones. He even missed them getting caught under his feet.
"For you then – back up North I s'pose," Varys continued. "That boy of yours still having trouble? Young, expensive brides... Love only goes so far. He's a looker for sure but even the prettiest man is dull beside a sapphire."
More wine poured into Jeor's glass.
"Thought as much. He's too keen to impress. Kings should be born without a cock, halfway through their life."
"Yours?" Jeor unfolded a piece of cloth sitting on the table. There was a sword beneath – simple, elegant – old. "I didn't have you placed as a fighting man. You'd sooner lift it and have your arms sliced off."
"Sentimental only," Varys folded the sword back up and placed it in the chest along with his other things. "What?"
Jeor's eyebrow was arched high. "For a keeper of secrets, you're a terrible liar."
"I say as little as possible. It makes it easier to keep track of the lies."
"Valyrian steel is hard to come by." He touched his own sword that would soon belong to his son. "Don't tell me you're some secret prince..."
They both laughed. "A gift. Of sorts... Truth lays waiting for those who look. There's a man looking for you. He'll be in the grove tomorrow. I promised I'd mention it."
Long after Jeor had left, Varys returned to the sword. Carefully, he unwrapped the ancient Valyrian steel and lifted it up to the failing light. The sun was low on the ocean. The water and sky were nearly the same shade of gold. He ran his fingers over the length. It drew blood soon as he touched the blade. Even after all this time it was hungry for blood. He'd found it in the rocks, wedged between the shells and water rushing from the Summer Isles. The blood from the battle had been washed off Lys' shore long ago. The bones of the dead were burned or thrown into the sea to become part of the white Lysene beaches. The sword remained, glinting in the half light as it did now.
A Gold Coat, thought Jeor, closing in on the solitary figure standing between the old, dwarf fruit trees. It was a hard life, perched on the cliff tops with a thin covering of dirt. Perhaps that's why the fruit was bitter. Merchants paid a fortune for the intensity. Then the man in uniform reached up, plucked a lemon free and tossed it off the cliffs, into the waves far below.
The man was odd looking with faded blue hair to his shoulders and deep-set crows feet at the edge of his eyes. In his youth he'd been larger than Jeor and, by the look of his sword, a kingsguard of some dead ruler.
"You're a long way from The Wall," Jon Connington observed, turning to his company.
"Never been to The Wall," Jeor replied, treading over the rotten fruit. "Might see it one day. They say it's a beautiful thing." He paused, giving the man a closer look. In another life he'd been a hero now the fumes of last night's alcohol circled him. "Why did you ask to see me?"
"Have you seen this place?" Connington replied, lifting his arm to the island of Lys. "There's more silver here than the Lannister chests. You've noticed. Dragons everywhere though none as lovely as the pair I saw you with. A city of ghosts. What's a Northerner doing defying his allegiance to the Starks to help two poor orphans on the wrong side of the world? If Ned knew he'd have your head and feed your innards to the wolves."
"Do I know you, sir?"
"Sir?" Jon laughed until his lungs shook. "Maybe once." He stepped forward, offering his hand which Jeor took. "Jon Connington, Hand of the true king, Aerys II. I served his son, Rhaegar, brother to the two little things you ferried onto a ship."
"So it is," Jeor nodded. "They sing songs about you."
"Do they include the glamorous end? Exiled. Drunk. Banished to the fringes of the world?" A smile appeared and vanished. "My song is of no interest. I'm here about the boy."
"Viserys?"
"No." Connington plucked another lemon from one of the trees. "The dragon has three heads, so some of the oldest songs go. Three dragons, Mormont. You've got two."
"Rhaegar is dead," Jeor said softly, thinking this man a little mad. He was besot by grief and what little of his hope was drowned in wine. "Long ago."
Connington nodded, eyes misted over – staring at the distant waves. They crashed against the cliff like an army at a fort wall and yet all Connington could hear was the tolling of the bells. "Oh yes. The prince is dead. His child lives. A child that should never have been born. You will meet him one day, when you do I need you to give him something."
The two men sat on the edge for hours.
"Why do you care?" Jeor finally asked. "There's no money in it, neither of us will live to see a dragon on the throne."
"The same old reason." He replied. "It makes us do all kinds of inexplicable things."
