YIN – YI TI

Three days. Three days spent roaming the fallen shore of Yin. Three days of losing every seaman's game offered by the pissed, foul-living pirates from the depths of their floating prisons. Three days waiting for the raiding parties to return. The pillaging crews worked in shifts, raping the city before circling back to drop their pickings onto the waiting ships which dipped in the water line, bellies full. They groaned like whales, cycling through the treacherous harbour, slipping between the decaying wrecks of Yin's trade ships.

Daario was caught by the morbid sense that they'd transformed into tomb robbers, stripping gold from the walls of sacred kings' crypts while angry ghosts looked on. At least the dragon was entertained, exploring the cliffs and the thousands of edible gulls that lived within the crevices. The pirates were used to Viserion. Some even hollered out to him, bolstered by rum.

Another morning broke and with it, snow. It was coming heavier than before, covering the golden city in a conspicuous white coat. If the unusual vista alarmed the pirates they kept it to themselves, stumbling about the deck getting fat on idleness. They were relaxing to Daario's presence. He had become a fixture on deck, begrudgingly accepting odd tasks until no one bothered to watch him any more. Except for the captain. She didn't trust the sell-sword. It was the lowest profession a man could take and thus, she reasoned, the man must also be of low quality to take it.

"Today is your turn," she announced her presence, striding over the deck wrapped in a fox-fur shawl. It was dyed a vile blue for some foreign lady they'd left murdered in their wake.

"Aren't there enough pirates in the city, captain?" Daario replied, resting casually with one arm on the ship's rail. The boat rocked gently with the tide. In a moment it'd be hit by the wash of a passing ship, ready to unload a new wave of raiders onto the shore. "Or are you merely tired of my face?"

"Let's not find out," she countered smoothly. "I may even let you keep some of you haul this time. A proper pirate we'll make of you."

"Then we sail for Westeros?"

"I did promise." Her eyes moved to the dragon. It had abandoned the cliff and was circling along the edge of the shore, stalking a muddle of sea turtles dragging their enormous bodies out of the water to lay eggs. It was clear that she was eager to be rid of their fire-breathing escort. There was enough money to last them years. That was an eternity in the pirate trade.

Daario smirked and blew the captain a mocking kiss.


"Did our beloved mistress of the seas rope you into tagging along?" Daario asked, when he realised he had a tail. Whitewash was never more than a few feet to his right, staggering along, awkward on the solid ground with his oversized frame and offensively pale hair.

"Volunteered," Whitewash replied.

In reality, they had been sent to retrieve the marauding groups of men that refused to return to the ships. They picked off the stragglers raiding houses near the wharves – roughing them up and tossing them into the main thorough-fair. They scampered toward the fleet in the harbour, rustling with gold. It rained from their pockets into the streets, paving it with gold.

"Where the hell are the rest of them?" Daario asked, as they kicked another door in. The wooden panel folded onto the floor, revealing the innards of the house. It was empty, accompanied by the foul stench of decayed food left out on the tables. Abandoned wine glasses stained the air with the sickly wreak of fermentation while several candles had burned small patches out of the wood before dying in a crater of charcoal. It was like wandering through one of the freezes on the palace wall. Yin had simply frozen.

"The wealthy houses are higher up the Emperor's Road," Whitewash pointed to the natural slope of the city. Yin was built into the gentle curve of the otherwise violent cliffs. The cheap houses melded with the fish markets at water level while the terraced houses of the rich lurked along the edges of the cliff. Some had burrowed straight through the rock where it was cool in the Summer months. Others peaked over the top of the cliff, overlooking the desert and ocean alike. All had fabulous sprigs of flowering trees embedded between the buildings like gemstones. They'd die in this cold. Beyond this veil of ocean cliffs were the famous Jade Gates of Yin that divided the restless sands from the civilised world. They were huge, constructed in a V-shaped gap in the rock. It was the only route into the city by land, keeping it unconquered for the entirety of living memory. It was said that the gods themselves had fashioned the stone with magic. Legend and truth were the same thing here, it seemed.

Daario viewed the climb with despair, appreciating none of its splendour. It took them hours to scale the paths and longer still to climb the infinite stone steps, curling around awkward streets in what felt like endless torment. Daario paused at a gap between crumbling buildings to view the harbour and the fleet of pirate ships far below. The snow was the worst of it. It melted and began forming awkward rivers that ate into their boots. "Are we nearly there?"

"See for yourself," Whitewash replied, pointing to the road ahead. The immense villas had come to an end leaving a lone service road and the last rise of cliff before the gaping mouth of stone. Yin was accessed by this tunnel that some described as 'the throat of the dragon. Rock became sand, darkness gave way to sun and suddenly they were standing in a thin strap of land between the cliffs and the desert beyond. They may as well have been standing on the surface of the sun for what lay beyond was hell brought to the realms of man.

"Fucking snow... Nice gates though," Daario whistled appreciatively at the Jade Gates. Odd that they were ajar... Whitewash thought so too and moved closer. They must have been thirty-foot high and deceptive in their beauty. Each edge of the intricate Jade designs had been sharpened and laced with the sharp smelling Tears of Lys. "I'm no expert on civilisation security," he wandered over to join the pirate, "but shouldn't those be locked or something?"

"Perhaps the raiders opened them."

"We're the raiders," Daario reminded him. "And for what purpose? There's nothing but fucking sand that way," he scoffed. There wasn't any way to lock them either. Those mechanisms were missing. "No. These weren't opened by lazy, roaming pirate scum."

"Where are the men, then?"

That was a point. "We must have missed them. It's a bloody big city. We should head back or our high mistress of the seas will think of some tiresome thing for us to do for her amusement."

"You're itching to sail to Westeros."

"Maybe."

This didn't sit well with Whitewash. He kept going back to the unlocked gates then casting his eyes up to the cliffs that guarded them. A stray crow screeched, unseen in the wall. Black eyes were always watching – the birds of the world. Those little bastards took their secrets to spiders like Varys, whispering in the ears of kings. "There's sumthin' out there," Whitewash said, pointing his sword at the sand.

Daario sighed heavily and moved a few paces towards the gate. It was hard to get a gauge of anything through the glare of the desert and flurry of unnatural snowfall. "A shadow from the storm cloud," he replied, motioning to the sky where the unnaturally blue clouds rumbled away, dropping snow. "Where in seven hells are you going?" Daario stepped aside as Whitewash dropped his sword and started to climb the cliff beside the gate. Daario lingered on the weapon in the sand but did not approach. There were grooves in the rock above, allowing Whitewash to scale it like some morbid, albino cave bat. Daario didn't like anything about Yin – he wanted to get out of it as soon as possible. It had a weird aura swirling around, like one of his nursemaid's curses. Filthy whispers on the air. He was a realist. Conflict was an opportunity that he had no intention of missing.

Whitewash pushed off the cliff and landed heavily on the sand, knocking Daario's shoulder along the way. Daario cursed at him but Whitewash took his weapon, brandishing it at the gates. "They're coming!" he growled, stabbing at the poisoned Jade. The gates swung pathetically, entirely ornamental without their locks.

"Who is coming?"

Whitewash offered the same reply as he had done in the palace. "Demons."

A fierce wind stirred, kicking grit into their faces – roaring over the cliffs.


Several hundred of them crawled out of the desert, drawn to the noise in the city. It was as if they could feel the presence of the pirates – their warmth and life – trickling through the streets like a pulse. It was enough to tempt them from the safety of the sand. They were refugees of the Grey Waste. Murders. Cannibals. Half-breed creatures touched by ice. If they were in Yin then the barrier North had fallen.

They moved fast, like the cold wind before a storm, throwing themselves toward the city. They were starving, after the flesh to take back to the convoy which roamed the desert, amassing a bloodthirsty nightmare.

Whitewash grabbed Daario by the arm and pulled him along as they headed for the tunnel. At speed it was slippery and difficult to tackle. They both fell as they hit fresh ice and skidded ten feet until they landed on the fringes of Yin's villas, sliding on their asses and finishing in a tangled mess. The ships in the bay were moving, beginning an arrangement to leave in convoy. Some had already broken the boundaries of the harbour and brushed the edge of the ocean currents, releasing their immense sails which flapped loosely. They had a good wind for it.

"How long before those things reach the city?" Daario asked, picking himself out of the stone road. His back killed from a few well placed cobblestones.

"Fifteen minutes. Maybe. I think they've been coming our way for a while. Look..."

The missing raiding party was dawdling in front of a villa to their right. Daario whistled at the pirates and was met with various 'bugger off' body language. They were smoking herbs and bickering over their haul like common thieves. "Bloody perfect..." Daario went to go for them when Whitewash held him back and shook his head gravely.

"No time for them."

"They're your mates..."

"Pirates don't have the same code as common sailors – which you know very well..."

Clink.

They both stopped arguing and turned toward the tunnel at their backs. It had come from beyond. The unmistakeable sound of a gate opening. Daario felt his heart erupt into his throat, pulsing against his breath, making it choke. "You said fifteen minutes."

"I was wrong."

Very fucking wrong, Daario cursed, as the pair of them abandoned the road and vaulted through the terraced gardens instead. They were headed for the palace, perched on the cusp of the cliff like an eagle nest. It was the fastest way to the water if only they could reach it. Screams. The bickering pirates had been interrupted by whatever had come through the desert gates. Neither of them braved a look behind to see what caused the brief scuffle. They didn't want to know. All they could do was flee. Daario had seen enough crazy shit on the side of the world to understand that running was always the best option.

Whitewash was ahead – advantaged by his extraordinary height. He slid down walls and bounced off the rock, pushing himself into the next leap. When the screaming stopped it was replaced by something akin to wind. It took Daario a moment to realise that it was the sound of bare feet scampering over stone.

"Up here – up here..." Whitewash whispered, trying not to draw any attention to their escape. He'd clambered up one of the outer palace walls and turned around, offering his arm to Daario. The sell-sword took it and found himself lifted straight over with alarming strength. It was only then that he saw what pursued them.

"Fuck – fuck, oh fuck..." Daario spun on his knees and forced himself away from the sight. He focused on the lay of the palace ahead. The doors on this side were locked but there should be an outside stairway to the sea somewhere on the -

They stopped dead.

The stone balcony that ran around the edge of the palace – with the sea on one side and the golden stone on the other – terminated in several blue-eyed savages, twitching and sneering in front of them. They carried crude weapons, dripping blood and bits of pirate skin.

"Bugger!" Whitewash thought of backtracking only to find a fourth demon sneaking up behind them. In the daylight he realised that they were not monsters but deformed humans, twisted and strengthened from living generations of existence at the edge of the world.

Whitewash lashed out first, swinging at the nearest creature. It was fast, dodging his blade as another of them ducked and rushed forward only to be kicked away. They fought like dogs, nipping at their heels. Daario had no sword at all. He looked around in a panic but there was only rock and palace wall. Nothing to latch onto. The creatures were sizing him up but in a moment they'd strike. Daario raised his fists at the creatures. They swayed against each other, muttering in something that might have once resembled speech. The largest was missing most of his arm. The limb hung in tatters with bits of sinew poorly tied together. It was inevitably turning for the worse – so that's where Daario aimed his first punch. He hit his mark but the smaller one on the other side lunged and caught hold of his shirt. It pulled Daario toward itself, gnashing its remaining teeth a breath from his skin. Daario looked into those cold, dead eyes.

"Let. Me. Go!" Daario kicked it away and finished the job with a back hand. The force flung the squealing thing at the stone wall where its skull collided with the rock and it fell, dead. That gave the others pause.

Whitewash upstaged him, cutting one of his attackers in two leaving a twitching corpse and ocean of blood at their feet.

Ocean.

Daario glanced over the waist-high wall. Maybe. "Oy!" he shouted at Whitewash, then nodded at the drop.

"Kidding..." Whitewash hissed back, taking another swipe at the remaining creatures. "The – what are you?"

In a moment Daario had scaled the wall and run along its edge. Beneath him was sea air and a harbour full of half destroyed ships. With any luck he wouldn't impale on any of them on the way down. "We can't fight our way out of this one," Daario insisted. He was right too, as Whitewash slay the last cannibal on the balcony, a dozen more caught onto their scent and started crawling over the palace walls toward them. There was no way that they'd be able to fight their way through.

Whitewash swore sharply and tucked his sword into the holster on his back. "You better be right about this, crazy motherfucker!" he said, looking at the sheer enormity of the drop below.

"I'm never sure about anything," Daario replied – then launched himself at the abyss.

Salt. Snow. That's all he felt. Daario closed his eyes and listened to the still of the world. He was sure that in the next moment he would die. He was certain of it but he'd rather this. It was elegant and ended in the sea where the gods of his ancestors would take him in. What's dead may never die, he repeated his words, whispering them until they became a song, lost to the winds. He'd live on in the waves. The water approached. He could feel it rushing up to meet him. That first brush of -


MILKGLASS SANDS - ULTHOS

Danny stirred.

"Dreaming again?" Jorah asked softly.

The sun beat down relentlessly, piercing through the pathetic tent they'd made of his shirt and a few broken spear shafts they'd found in the sand. It afforded them a small patch of shade but no relief from the desert which did its best to roast their flesh. Jorah weathered most of it. The exposed skin on his arms had already turned an alarming shade of red and begun to peel away in patches. They had no water – only the distant promise of Asshai which had grown closer during the night. The ground was the worst part. Black beneath with a fine layer of grey sand, it drank all the heat and radiated it out onto their fragile flesh. Jorah was almost praying for the Long Night.

"The same dream," Daenerys replied. "He's laying in a bed of tentacles. They wrap around his limbs, encasing him until there is only the sea." She hesitated. "Is he dead?"

"I'm not that lucky," Jorah assured his queen.

"It's always the sea. He looks at me from beyond the water. So lost..."

"Daario is with the Dothraki," Jorah assured her. "The one place he won't be is the sea, my queen. Daario is smart. He's valuable to them as a sell-sword. He'll find a way to one of the free cities, I am sure of it. Before this war is done, you will see him again." If only for the gods to have one more go at vexing him before he died.

It was too hot to move. "This reminds me of the Red Waste," she said, closing her eyes. She lived for the faintest touch of breeze.

"I preferred it," Jorah replied. There wasn't much to like about this place, especially the pools of sulphur which had become more common the closer they drew to Asshai's mountains. His queen's pale skin was turning brown in the sun. If anything, it made her silver hair stand out.

"Aren't you going to mention it?" she finally added, drifting somewhere near sleep.

"I know... I saw them too." The desert sands were littered with bleached dragon bones, thousands upon thousands, many of them from tiny animals. It was a graveyard. "They seem to be old. I don't think there are any dragons here now save for yours."

"None that are awake," she pointed out. "How old are you?"

Jorah nearly choked on the heat. "Old enough."

"Younger than you pretend," she countered. "Tyrion said -"

"The gift that keeps on giving."

"-that Northern men have a way about them. You can read the troubles of the world between one eyebrow and the next."

"If I ever bring you another Lannister head, it's arriving in a box."

"Fair enough – but not his..." Dany opened her eyes long enough to make sure Jorah swore not to kill Tyrion. "You dislike him and I would argue it's your own fault for finding him." Jorah couldn't fault her there. "But he does have an unparalleled knowledge of Westeros. I cannot burn all the old houses to the ground when I arrive. If I arrive..." she added, remembering that she was probably knocking softly at death's door.

"There is one thing for certain, your Grace," he replied. "The Lannisters will have to burn if you intend to rule. They will not give up their crown, certainly not to a dragon. Not in a thousand years. It remains to be seen if your pet lion has the nerve to murder the last of his name."

"He hates his sister."

"Oh indeed but he loves his brother."

"The Kingslayer – who murdered my father. He'll be the first to die."

Jorah eyed his queen questioningly. She'd have to temper that fury once the wars were done. "Yes, my queen – he must die. Not by your hand."

"By only my hand. He'll die, screaming in the flames. He is the reason I lost everything." That wasn't true and even as she said it, Dany knew that it had taken more than one sword to fell an empire. She turned her head to the side and let her hand lightly fall onto Jorah's chest. He opened his eyes, waiting for her to speak. "Tell me again," she continued softly, "am I very like my father?"

"No, your Grace," Jorah assured her. "You resemble your brother Rhaegar. By all accounts he was a fair, honourable prince – well liked by his subjects." And too beautiful, Jorah thought. That had been the crack in his armour. Beauty commanded love. That always led to trouble. "He had your eyes and silver hair," Jorah added, "and like you, felt keenly the pain of blood spilled in the past. Ser Barristan Selmy used to speak of you as his twin, now, gods permitting, you shall rule the seven kingdoms in his stead, as is your birth right."

"And yet he raped that Stark girl and started a war that tore apart the realm."

Jorah was quiet. "So they say."

"You think otherwise?"

"Something my father said once," Jorah replied. "He spent some time travelling with Ned Stark, rounding up Wildlings in the farthest reaches of the realm. It was not long after that terrible business with the Martell girl. He'd brought a bastard back with him. My father carried the babe for many days across the snows while Stark rallied the bannermen. He said that there was something about the child..."

"What – he wasn't a Stark?"

"No, he was a Stark all right. It was his eyes. My father said that they were mirror of the prince."

Dany sat up and cast a shadow over Jorah. "What became of the child?" she pressed.

"That's the strange thing," Jorah propped himself up onto one elbow. His skin was burning from the heat but it was nothing compared to the fire in his queen's eyes. "As a bastard of the North – with Winterfell in ruins, he was sent to the Wall – to be trained by my father. Last I heard, the Stark bastard was the new Lord Commander, after my father. Little shit got my sword."

Her lip curled at his frustration. "And what do you think happened – do not lie or I shall know."

"He wasn't the type to run away with an unwilling girl. The whispers of the North are that they ran together, defied the Baratheon king and were killed for it. If that is true, your war is not with the North. That bastard Snow may very well be your nephew." And heir to the throne of Westeros – or would have been if it were not for taking the black. "In any case, we will know if we see him. Dragons are hard to miss, if you know what to look for. We bears have a nose for it."

"The Wall is a long way from here," she lamented, laying back on the sand.

"Indeed it is, my queen."

Asshai felt even further. Together, they waited until the cool air of dusk whipped up idle whirlwinds, tracking over the barren landscape. The sunlight turned them pink. Jorah stood, untangling his shirt from the skeleton of their tent. Silently, they started again, trudging toward the shallow, stagnate water that lay at the feet of the black mountains.


WINTERFELL – THE NORTH

"Don't. Move." Brienne's eyes never left the shivering skin of the dragon's snout. It was sucking in the air from around them, creating a wind that pulsed – in and out – in and out, with every breath.

The dragon was waking up. Every now and then the breathing stopped and for a few tense minutes, all was silent.

"I ain't never seen a dragon," Podrick whispered.

"No one's seen a dragon, you idiot," Brienne hissed. "Dragons are extinct."

"Really..." Because Podrick was pretty certain that he was staring straight at a distinctly non-extinct dragon.

"Are we really going to have this discussion here?! Sansa..." Sansa slipped by Brienne and approached the cracked wall. "Come back!"

Sansa was not afraid. She stepped around the frantically boiling pool of water and stood in front of the dragon's exposed snout. Its skin was not made of scales like a fish but leathery, with a strange, bulbous pattern pressed into the flesh. It was white, like the snow, with delicate hints of blue veins running beneath. It was almost as if it were made of ice. There were ice dragons in Old Nan's stories but this was not one of them. For a start, the ground around the dragon burned hot. It was the reason the ice was melting in Winterfell. It was probably the reason that the castle had always remained warm, no matter how dark the night. She wondered if it had always slept beneath Winterfell.

"We should wake it up..." Sansa whispered.

"Are you mad?" Brienne hissed back.

"Trust me."

Even Theon had gone pale. "Sansa – please. I know you want revenge but a dragon will burn Winterfell to the ground."

"The Boltons with it..." she replied darkly, then pulled part of the wall down, revealing a huge, bright blue eye. The dragon was already awake.