ESSOS - LYS

286 AC

There was a body laid among the lemons. Blue hair rustled in the ocean winds. A new sun revealed a smile clinging to his lips through death. In front, the sails of Illyrio's ship vanished into the curve of the world. Jon watched them through the night, thinking of times past and a future that might be before falling into the shadow lands. A time of dragons.


ATLAS RANGES, ULTHOS

301 AC

"Typical."

There was nothing else to say. Jorah paced in dismay around the bare patch where the dragons were meant to be keeping watch. They were gone. Not a bloody trace of them. The queen was not surprised. They were her children and she loved them but they were their own creatures.

"Stop – you'll do your leg no good," she insisted. The queen was right, Jorah was heavily favouring his other side, near-limping with a concerning stain of blood half way down his calf. "We cannot rely on dragons. My ancestors made that mistake, look for them now."

"In ocean graves," Jorah drawled, "and ruined cities."

"Exactly." Dany frowned at the state of her knight until she could stand it no more. "Sit," she insisted, settling him onto a rock. "Your injuries from the beach are worse than you let on."

"Scratches," he tried to brush her off but she hit his hands away sharply and threatened him with one of her fierce stares.

"Scratches are what Rhaegal gave you." She brushed her pale fingers over his arm, neck and chest where the dragon's claws had touched. Her creature had not meant any harm. They were stronger than they realised. Eventually, she reached his leg and slid the bloodied mess of wrappings down. "There's an arrow head in there."

"Spear," he corrected, as the queen tossed the bloody rag aside and knelt on the ground in front of Jorah. He shifted uncomfortably above, clinging onto the rock as her soft hands pressed and pulled the edges of the wound, sending waves of pain up the back of his calf. His muscle clenched and his leg began to shake. "Khaleesi, I don't think you should-" he began to say, as she took hold of a shard of stone embedded in his flesh. Only the tip was visible but she managed to grip it firmly. The rest of his words required an apology as the item was excavated. Dany held up half a spear head, dripping with his blood. Jorah took it from her and tossed it off the edge of the mountain. "You'll never make a nurse. With your permission, I'm going to pass out for a moment."

He was pale enough. "No you may not," Daenerys denied him, ripping cloth from her dress ready to bandage the wound again. "I'm not done."

By the time the queen had heated the hunting blade in the coals and pressed the red steel against his skin to the sickening tune of cooking flesh, searing the outer layer, Jorah lay limp against the rock. She re-tied the bandage and kissed him softly on the cheek. Even asleep he cut a formidable figure – although his body continued to tremble. It wasn't only the vicious slice in his knew poison when she saw it and it was making its way through Jorah's body, turning his veins blue. He was still alive which meant he'd probably live...

She left him sleeping. The morning sun hit the grey desert first, rising in the East, turning it a deceptive shade of pink. Asshai was a shadow in the distance with the faintest touch of red where its mountains bled fire. It wad odd to think but her dragons were home. Their eggs were procured from the fiery mountains – who knew how many of their siblings lay in wait. Perhaps that's where they'd gone – straight into the fiery world of their birth to nestle with clutches of unhatched eggs.

Daenerys slid down the smooth faces of the rock on the desert side, staying away from the terrifying drop that made her heart race and stomach turn. A short way down there were pools of water collected in the night. She drank and soaked her sash, bringing it back up to Jorah. The cool water on his forehead woke him. Instinctively he grabbed her hand and reached for a sword that wasn't there.

"Easy..."

"Apologies, my queen," he whispered, releasing her a moment later. "Water?"

"In the rocks, as you said."

"That's something."


They drank dry every pool they crossed and had their fill of insects sunning themselves. Several hours into the descent and the large, stable boulders gave way to rubble and sheer drops veiled in bridges of dirt that disintegrated at a breath. Jorah let the queen go first though his large hands were never far away, grasping at her often when her footing stumbled or the mountains shook. He got the feeling that they were at the edge of all natural laws where magic rippled to the surface, threatening to tear the world apart.

"When you're ready," Jorah swung the queen, who dangled from his arms over an alarming drop. Neither of them looked at the gap in the rock. Wind rushed up through it, blowing dust in their faces. He aimed for the ledge below, said a prayer to the Old Gods and let go. Daenerys fell for a moment, silver hair fanning out in all directions as though she were the moon itself. Then she landed safely on the rocky outcrop with a cloud of dirt.

"Right – now you," she said, turning to him with arms outstretched as though she had any hope of catching him should he misjudge the fall.

It went on like this, hour upon hour until Jorah realised that they'd be lucky to make it down from the mountains let alone begin a journey across the desert. At least the air had thickened. Every foot gave them strength and insects had become small, rock birds that they could catch later.

Nine hours in, they collapsed against the cliff face – feet dangling over the edge, defeated. They were covered in dust and blood – too exhausted to go on.

"Your leg?" Dany asked, sipping from another pool tucked against a crevice.

Jorah laughed softly. "The leg's fine. This is worse." He held up his forearm, scraped bare from a recent tumble. They'd both be black and blue by morning. "This?" he whispered, reaching over to move some of her white hair covering a bruise on her forehead where a stray rock had struck.

"Not the worst thing that's happened to me." She admitted and leaned against his shoulder, closing her eyes. It was cold and a foul mist had gathered in preparation for another night. The closer they got to the desert at their feet, the heavier her sense of dread became. At least the jungles were alive. This place was – not dead, dead was the wrong word. It was a different kind of life, foreign to them.

"My queen, we should not rest here," he said softly. "This ledge is far from ideal. Reminds me of a sky cell. Those were the days. Great view of the Eyrie though and they smelled better than the slavers' pits."

"We'll rest where I say."

"Yes, khaleesi. You know what would be excellent right about now?"

"Flat ground?"

"A pair of obliging dragons."

They both grinned and edged together. Jorah eventually lifted his arm and let her move closer. There was barely two foot of give on either side so they kept their backs pressed against the solid wall of the ranges. They vibrated often, as if they were living things themselves.

"Why does the rock hum?" Daenerys asked, nearly asleep.

"The mountains are still growing," he replied. "That's how they say the mountains are made – bit by bit over many years."

She mumbled in response and fell quiet for a while. "The cities, in the forest... Does anyone know who lived there?"

"Maybe the runes of the First Men know," Jorah replied. "No one knows what stories they tell. Whomever they were, they were practitioners of magic. This part of the world stinks of it. You must remember that magic has two sides and a blurred line in-between. Asshai may not be the friend you hope."

They slept as the world went dark and a pair of dragons circled over the desert, playing in the thermals coming from the mountains, singing.


CITADEL, OLD TOWN

Samwell Tarly stepped into the flooded street as thunder purred. Lightning flickered, nowhere and everywhere. Salt bit at the ancient stone which was embellished by floral patterns, almost as scales that covered the great stone city. It hugged the harbour, sprawling from the edge of the water into the hills behind. One solid mass of rock, grown into unusual structures, buildings weaving together as if they were vines in a forest.

Gilly climbed down off the cart with her infant son swaddled against the hot rain.

Two green-stone statues loomed above, as big as the gates on The Wall. Sphinxes, with rivers of water pouring over their stone wings and fangs. Each one had a dragon tail, wrapped around the fossilised remnants of Weirwood trees that once thrived in the wet, Southern city but had long since burned leaving only traces of ash in the talons. Above, bridges of stone stretched between buildings. With the sky darkened by the storm, every window shone with lamp like a city of forest insects or the stars in the North.

"This is the Citadel," Sam replied, moving out of the rain with her. They stood between the two monstrous sphinxes while their paltry luggage was ushered off by porters. Gilly wandered over to one, reaching to touch its base. A few street children had climbed up to sit between the grotesque paws. Some played others slept between the clutches of their paws. "They look a bit like dragons, don't you think?"

"What's a dragon look like?" she replied, stroking a crack where a yellow flower had sprung into life.

"Come inside, I'll show you. There's a dragon skull here."


There were thousands of people entombed in the Citadel but they moved like mice, shuffling through the dark, clutching paper and candles. You could hear them if you placed your ear to the wall.

Sam was given lodgings half way up one of the inner buildings with a view of other, equally dull towers and a market strip below. One of the stone bridges jutted out from the level below. Gilly lingered by the window, watching hopeful maesters trundle across it. There were no edges or rails. It was no place to raise a child but safer than the North, Wall or whorehouse.

The rain persisted, dribbling into their room through cracks in the rock.

"I'll start a fire and you can dry your things," Sam said, moving over to their fire pit. He shifted the iron grill, decorated with thorns and began sparking it into life. It caught and burned well, lighting the room and immediately drying the moisture on the wall.

"Are all the cities in the South like this?" She asked. "Quiet, like."

Sam shook his head. "Not from the stories I've heard. This is a city of scholars. There's no court, very few families and barely any trade. I know it's not very exciting but it's the safest place to be." He handed her the few coins that remained from Jon's purse. "Why don't you go down to the markets and see if you can find something for dinner? I have a meeting with a maester."


Gilly changed into the clothes provided by the Faith, left her baby in the protection of a city-run creche and headed into the streets of Old Town. It was an unusual place. The entrances of each building were guarded by a statue of some sort. Most were monstrous creatures, others were carved flowers the size of horses, edged with pink gold. Inscriptions had been laced between the ornate detail, twisted like spells set into stone which was strange for Sam had told her expressly not to mention magic inside these walls. The Citadel was a place of learning with no room for magic. They'd burned the dragons, rebelled against the whispering words of the old world and ushered in the golden age of Westeros.

The lie was that she was a farm bastard, Gilly Snow, fled from the overrun lands up North. It was easy to tell and explained her pale looks to anyone curious enough to ask.

Hours of picking her way through the streets led ended in a sudden divide of the buildings and the sails of merchant vessels. The bay backed right against the stone. Gilly approached the gnarled wall covered in gull shit and leaned over, peering into the dark water. Ships, bustled by the storm winds, wove around the island in the centre of the water.

She took a shuddering breath at the sight of Hightower. It looked like Castle Black only built of paler stone with a cage of fire burning at its peak. It was nearly as tall as The Wall, helped by a base built of sickly, black stone that stole all light from the world. Beneath that the island itself reared out of the sea, three times the height of the tallest ship. A single, wooden set of stairs staggered up the rocks from a lone jetty.

"Ugly, isn't it?"

Gilly turned to a women carrying a basket of shellfish. "What is it?"

"Hightower. It's a lighthouse to mark the edge of the shore, built on ruins. Same bloke that built that monstrous wall, they say."

Gilly could see that. It had the look – same square windows and trellised layers. If it was as old as The Wall, she wondered who'd built the castle underneath. "There's a light in the top window."

The woman nodded. "Aye, Old Man Hightower. Been up their long as I've been here. He watches us all from his fortress. You can visit the island, if you like – take the walk around the black ruins if you've got a bob to spare."

Gilly kept her money, returning to their room as the rain returned. She couldn't stop thinking about the tower in the sea. She'd been reading with Sam, learning the history of Westeros. Sam kept telling her that knowledge would win the war that was coming – the war against the Long Night and the men of ice that were headed for them. She'd looked into those cold, blue eyes and seen the dark magic ripple through the pale flesh. Illustrious cities and stone walls could no more stop the ice than the rain.


THE SUMMER SEA

Tyrion couldn't stomach wine. He sat on deck, with the ships rocking sharply in the waves. The sea around him was full of sails. From a distance they looked like a flock of gulls, drifting in the dark. The land was far behind them and good riddance, as far as Tyrion was concerned. He never wanted to see another forest or swarm of insects again. His limbs still itched from their ravenous bites.

"You'll scratch your skin off," Varys said, joining him. He carried a lantern, wandering the decks at night. It helped him think, or so he said. Tyrion supposed he was looking for crows. Waiting for whispers.

"It'd be worth it," he replied. "We must be mad. What's our plan if the queen doesn't return?"

"We've enough gold to feed the army and buy our way to Dorne."

"We need more than money to reach Dorne – we need a ruler. This is the second time a dragon's flown off with our queen to gods know where."

"She's a young queen and a dragon," Varys replied patiently. "Better that she learn the ways of her dragon on the edges of the world rather than within the confines of a city. Besides, without our dragon escort we attract less attention."

"Well I hope you're right because I know something about money. We left a serious portion of it back in that savaged city. We need backing from the Iron Bank if we're going to wage war on a whole continent. You know that, I think. Are there spiders living in the rafters of the bank?"

"That would be telling."

"You're no fun," Tyrion complained. "I nearly got my arse roasted for this cause. You could dip your abdomen in."

"Which is better treatment than you received in Kings Landing."

Tyrion paused – then smiled. "That is true." He was quiet for a while, both of them watching the waves. "Do you think there's any chance my nephew can be spared? You know – if by some miracle we survive long enough to sail into Kings Landing and wage this war."

"He's a young boy – your queen is forgiving. She might agree to exile him but it would be a mistake."

"He's the best of us," Tyrion added quietly. "A sweet boy."

Varys was troubled, observing the Lannister carefully. "You must prepare yourself. The game has begun, the pieces are in place. Whether you wish it or not there's a fleet headed to Westeros to remove your family from the throne. This may very well leave you the last of your name."

A sad thought passed him. "Maybe Myrcella can carry our line, live out peacefully in Dorne. I may even visit her when we land. What is it?" Varys had lowered his lantern and turned unusually quiet. "Varys?" Varys' silence was his answer. All Tyrion asked was, "How?"

"Poison, they say," Varys answered quietly. "Your brother was with her, sailing back to Kings Landing."

"We had peace with the Martells!" Tyrion thumped the rail of the ship. "Oberon swore to me-"

"Oberon is dead. His widow is full of rage. Your nephew sits on the Iron Throne. Valar Morghulis."

"Kings too." Added Tyrion, throwing the rest of his wine into the waves and the gods below.

Varys' eyes were on the black waves. "The gods of the sea are very old and angry. They snatch souls from our pitiful boats and war with the wind above and fires below. Careful what you toss at their feet."


ATLAS RANGES, ULTHOS

Jorah and Daenerys woke before dawn. The mountains at Asshai were on fire, sending a thick trail of black smoke into the sky, lit from below. They crackled and spat at the sky like vents to the underworld.

There were only a few more boulders to negotiate before they reached the grey surface of the desert where they found that it wasn't sand at all but a dry skin of clay, crusted by salt and stretched thin over the expanse. Every now and then it cracked apart and beneath was...

Jorah knelt awkwardly to the ground, groaning at the pain in his leg. He placed his hand onto the rock beneath the claw, digging away at the surface to get a better look. "Unbelievable," he whispered. "Obsidian. A whole fucking desert of it."

It was pristine, like the surface of an egg – melted, smoothed and cooled. Tempered into a black skin.

"Forget the Iron Bank, my queen. If you could mine this you'd have enough gold to purchase the throne without a drop of blood. Hell, Westeros and most of Essos."

"Too bad we're out here alone," she teased, helping him back to his feet. "For now it'll have to stay where it is. Do you think the dragons made it?"

Jorah shook his head. "I think it's natural. You still want to try for Asshai?"

"Well I'm not climbing back up that mountain..." Daenerys assured him. "And neither are you with that leg. Come on."

"Asshai is that way, khaleesi," Jorah pointed at the shadow on the world when the queen started off in the wrong direction.

"We'll take a rest in that cave. See if there is any more water."

'Cave' was generous. It was a large slash in the side of the mountain partially covered by rubble. Tracks of recent water flows clawed out cracks and black strips where it had been washed away entirely. "Carefully, it's slippery..." she said, as they both fell to the glass floor in a catastrophe of cloth and bone. The sound echoed a dozen times, bouncing from wall to wall.

Jorah reached inside his leather satchel and drew out small torch, lighting with a shard of flint. It burst to life in a ball of flames.

Daenerys gasped. It was, for lack of a better description, beautiful. The ground of the cave was solid obsidian. Some of it extended up the wall of the limestone cliffs, streaked with green and red crystal. It was fused into the rock and lifted up from the depths of the world as the mountain range grew. In front of them the cave floor curved away, forming a natural collection point where a pool of cool water sat waiting for them.

They stood, staying toward the edge of the cave where they could hold onto the rocky walls. Jorah led, torch in front, as they crept deeper in.

"It's cold," Daenerys whispered, her skin pricking up. Breath formed at her lips and soon they found pockets of ice between the rock. She'd never been so cold. It stuck at her skin like knives and bit at her flesh. She'd not seen snow or felt the touch of ice. Except in her dreams.

"Ice," Jorah explained, taking her hand so that she didn't have to touch the wall.


THE WALL, THE NORTH

A watchman on the wall rocked back and forth against the cold, braving another front of snow. It lashed at his exposed forehead, scraping it red. He had little but a rusted cage and waist-high ridge of ice to block the cold. If he weren't so cold he'd laugh.

"What's so bloody funny?" Another man of the Night's Watch said, when he heard as strangled chuckle.

"For a 'mo I thought I saw th' ice melt," he replied, pointing at a glistening patch.

"Melt? In this fucking shit?" The other man stabbed his bow at the blue clouds rolling in, heavy with ice. "Not been on the drink, have you?"

"Never know. Migh' be the dragon."

The man rolled his eyes. Not the dragon again. "You have been on the drink."

"Nah 'serious! I ain' the only one to say. Borris, down in th' tunnels. Said he saw the wall drip n' all. Middle of winter. Water on th' floor. Dragons."

"Everything's fucking dragons with you." The snowfall thickened. "Couldn't see Cersei's arse in this." Silence fell between them when the winds began to howl against The Wall. It was hours until it cleared. "Maybe it's the Red Witch."

"Wench with th' hair down t'ere?"

"Snow's body burns tonight. Maybe she's fucking with your wall..."

"Nah mate," the other man shook his head. "Dragons."