The Sun Beneath The Waves
TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI
A thin sheet of ice lay over the bay, stilling the tumultuous waves. The rising sun lingered on its surface as a sad reflection, trapped inside the water until everything cracked, pushed under the bow of a Mormont fishing boat. A convoy returned from battle. Their bear king stood at the front of the lead boat, steel eyes focused on the streams of smoke rolling through the sea-mist and the faint glow of flame where the island hung under a shadow.
The violent foliage of the cliff-bound Weirwood emerged first from tainted fog, looming over the Bay of Ice with red tendrils. It shed leaves onto the ice. They caught in the wind, skipping towards Jeor with a soft, thwap-thwap-thwap.
Jorah lurched oddly toward the chair as the vision crept in and out. He saw snow fall around Quaithe, tumbling over her smooth, bald skin that had been melted like the entire city of Asshai. Only a few silver wisps remained near her ear. They matched her thick, white eyelashes. Jorah steadied himself. The snow and the image of his father faded, replaced by the mismatched eyes of his companion.
"Illusions do not withstand scrutiny," Quaithe explained, when she caught him staring.
"Your face – a fire?" Jorah asked, unable to take his eyes off the woman before him. She was mythical in a way he could not describe and older than she first appeared.
"Your queen did what I could not," she replied, deciding to sit. First, she plucked her gold mask from the floor and fussed with it, tracing the tiny golden plates. She'd not let anyone see her without it for a very long time. "Awaken dragons."
"Dragons did that to you?" he asked. "Dragons have been lost to the world for-"
"No, not dragons," she stopped him. Quaithe was... distant. "I've not spoken of it."
"If you want me to trust you," Jorah insisted, taking the seat opposite. "I need to know who you are."
Quaithe could not remain seated. She left the mask on the table and circled the chair, shifting uncomfortably, clenching her fists in grief. "I tried, for his sake," she whispered, "you must understand that what happened was an accident. He was my king and my blood." Quaithe, who had never shown a flicker of emotion, trembled. "There were seven eggs," she began darkly. "Two were taken from the last, sickly dragons that lived in King's Landing. One was gifted from a private collector in Dorne, another was found in the snow drifts at the edge of the wall. The final three came from Asshai, collected fresh from the mountains."
Seven, Jorah thought. Imagine seven dragons roaming the sky.
"I set the eggs in front of palace gods – one for each. It was a beautiful palace," she added, as an aside. "There was nothing like it in all the world, except perhaps, the ruins of Chroyane." Their endless beauty was now a chasm of despair, choking on ruin. "Summerhall was a celebration. A Targaryen rebirth. Aegon was consumed with tales from the golden era of conquest. He brought the family together to attempt something the realm thought impossible. The return of dragons."
"You were brought from Asshai with the eggs?" Jorah asked.
"I was, though I was not alone. Aegon was not satisfied with sorcery, he also brought pyromancers and stock piles of Wildfire made by the maesters of Old Town. He refused to believe that the secret of hatching dragons had been lost with the fall of Valyria. All I had were scrolls – fragments and rumour. In the wild dragons hatch on their own but nobody, in written memory, has commanded one to hatch. We tried with enchantments. I knelt before the eggs and chanted for hours with the Targaryen household waiting behind. Nothing. Impatient, the king brought in the wildfire." Quaithe hesitated, touching her neck where the edge of the ruined skin began. "Well... you know the rest. Everyone heard what became of our king."
"I know you are a Targaryen," Jorah said quietly. There was no mistaking her without the mask. "A king's bastard?"
"We were all the daughters of kings..." she replied softly, repeating something told to her by another. "A different Aegon was my father. Aegon IV. And yes, I was a bastard once. No more."
No more. That king's anointed bastards tore apart the realm. Black dragons against Red. It was a dance of madness. "Then I know who you are," Jorah realised. "It's why you understand the poisons of Lys. Your mother was from those waters, yes? You have more blood of old Valyria than your father."
"I sometimes wonder, are the ruins of my home in Valyria still sitting in the mist, untouched, covered by a veil of jungle? I like to think of them as peaceful. A place where dragons roam."
"Daenerys is your blood."
"Is it true what they say about the night dragons woke? In this part of the world, you hear things on the wind. Not all of them true."
"I watched her walk into the flames myself," confirmed Jorah, "and lived in with them all night. They never touched her. Perhaps that is what the gods wanted all along – the promise of a soul."
"In that case, I have something for the queen," Quaithe added. "I keep it locked away but when it comes time to leave, it is hers. A dragon horn, the last that I know of. It will call one of her dragons and from there you may escape."
"We were planning to take a ship from the harbour and sail to meet the rest of our fleet."
"There are no ships for you here, Ser Jorah. None that mean to take you home."
Finally, Quaithe slid the mask back over her face. Jorah let her rest a moment before he levelled his gaze and with the famous bear stubbornness asked, "Where is Daenerys?" for she had not answered his question.
Daenerys sprawled herself over the dragonglass wall, arms spread out, fingers scratching at the burned surface. Green flames enveloped her, rushing around the queen's limbs as though she were the surface of the sun. Occasionally they broke free, gasping into the room, slapping against the floor before curling back to the seething mass of fire.
She was somewhere else. In another time. A place far from here.
Still waters. An ocean where the curve of the sky and the ebb of wave were the same. There was a pirate ship with pregnant sails centred in the water. It listed gently, catching a winter wind. From no where, thick tentacles surged out of the ocean and wrapped around the ship, crushing its ancient frame, toppling the iron-wood mast before dragging it screaming to the depths.
Daenerys woke. Gasped. Rolled eyes back and fell once more into the flames.
Ash. The throne room at King's Landing. It mocked her dreams so often that she knew it better than her childhood home. The ceiling was a twisted mess of charred wood. The golden walls had melted into puddles. Then there was the throne itself. Daenerys approached, taking the steps toward its platform. A corpse sat on the throne. Eyes of ice. Pale skin. It smiled at her. She had seen this before.
"What do you mean, 'you don't know'?" Jorah roared back at Quaithe.
"Exactly as it sounds," she scorned, having none of the bear's rashness. "A few days ago she vanished. I left her here while I collected supplies and I when I returned she was simply gone."
"Well did you look for her?"
"Of course I looked for. Daenerys is the most powerful magical creature in the known world, anyone one in the city could have taken her. Magic is our currency. Her dreams are worth more than all the gold in Braavos."
"We have to find her. Now."
"Sit..." Quaithe insisted. "I agree that we must find her but you are not strong enough. The one thing I know for sure is that whoever has her, they will not kill her. Not yet. She makes them stronger."
"So, we're just going to sit here and talk, while she's out there on her own?"
"No. You're going to sit here, I am going to find out where she. I realise that it is against your better nature to listen to advice but when have I ever steered you wrong? Remember one thing, these visions that you have, they're not real. You understand this? Don't be tempted by them. Remain here, in the present – with your Queen."
Quaithe was a shadow. She moved with the rest of them – the silent mass that flowed through The Temple of the Pale Lion. It was a dichotomy of gods from the furthest reaches of civilisation's memory, named after the statue standing at its heart. Thirty feet high, it was carved from the remains of an ancient Weirwood tree into the shape of a lion with its ghoulish head looking to the stars. The ceiling above was open allowing the mists of Asshai to sweep into the depths of the temple and filter through the halls. Around the statue's base, the existing root system sank into the stone floor and vanished into the foundations where many said it bound itself to the stone and continued to grow for a thousand years.
She stopped in front of it where the mist was at its thickest, rising to her waist. On evenings such as these, the lion wept bloody tears.
Leaving the lion, Quaithe followed a cluster of necromancers. They hissed in Rhoynish on their way to the crypts to seek out fresh corpses. Most could raise a body but they were husks, requiring the full attention of the necromancer to animate it. A week dead and not even the most powerful of their kin could waken life. She used their cover to pass into the other side of the temple known only as Night. Quaithe filed off from the necromancers and joined the small court where figures lingered, trying to trade relics from other lands.
Where was he ? Quaithe discreetly searched. Eyes followed her every move. She was used to it. Asshai had been her home longer than most of them had lived. There he was.
Quaithe cornered the dwarf who, unlike the rest of their company, was dressed brightly in a sapphire tunic and silver belt. He'd dyed his hair the colour of fire and pierced most of his skin, embedding all manner of semi-precious jewel into his flesh.
"The pirate king..." Quaithe mocked, bowing in greeting at the imp.
As he turned, his sombre expression faded into a cheerfully reciprocated bow. "A mere merchant!" he protested. "Of fine, rare pieces with dubious origin."
"Of course you are." Quaithe took his arm and led him to a quieter corner of the court.
"Listen," the dwarf lowered his voice, "I ain't got no more of that stuff – I already told you."
Quaithe shook her head. "No, the dose you gave me was correct," she assured him. "As good as your word."
"I always am," he assured her. "But that's our favour done."
"Indeed. You have another talent."
"Oh do I?" He seemed intrigued by the sorceress, leaning in a little closer.
"I have it on good authority that you know the location of every magical relic worth possessing – including, perhaps, a dragon queen?"
CITADEL – OLD TOWN
Misery made its home in the barren towers of Old Town. The city had existed for too long. It had begun to wither and die, both in the decay of its buildings and the hearts of the creatures that lived within them. It was a sharp contrast to the waters butting up against the walled harbour. Lazy gulls floated on the surface, their heads turned in sleep and feathers kicked up by the softest ocean breeze. Enormous merchant vessels creaked against their ropes. Men crawled through their rigging like rats, shouting in a dozen bastard languages of the realm.
"Here again?" Sam found Gilly at the edge of the harbour with a view of the Hightower. "I never thought you'd be one to take a fondness for a building."
"I'm not fond of it," Gilly turned, leaning against the wall. Sam was dutifully dressed in maester robes, all grey and dreary, he blended into the city streets. "Don't you wonder at what it was?"
Sam craned around her, taking another look at the monstrosity piercing out of the waves. "Not really. There are lots of old, strange things in the world. If we stopped to wonder at them all we'd forget to live. I mean, I like old things but that one is..." Morbid. It had a history of violence.
Gilly shrugged. "Well I do," she replied, holding out her palm. She showed him a few coins. "I'm waiting for a boat. One of the fisherman's wives told me that you can walk the wall."
"That wise?" He was overtly paranoid, not controlling. Since his internment with the Archmaester Marwyn he'd become unsettled.
"Wiser than travelling South of The Wall," she assured him, offering up a smile. "Wiser than setting up with a man of the Night's Watch who thinks himself a maester."
He was amused. "You have a point."
Gilly enjoyed the water. The small boat that took her across the bay was low on the water line. She draped her hand over the side, letting it flirt with the wash. The salt made her skin tacky but it was worth it for the rush of cool water and their guide's soothing monologue about the history of Hightower.
"One of the nine man-made wonders," he started. Their guide spoke to them from the front of the boat, facing a small convoy of travellers. "It stands among the walls of Qarth, the bells of Norvos, the bridge of Volantis – of course you will all have heard tales of the Titan of Braavos with his legs spread over the harbour like a great bronze whore." There was a general rise of laughter among the crowd. "Any who have travelled the Valyrian roads of the East understand why they, along with The Wall of ice in the North, top Lomas' list. The Palace With A Thousand Rooms and the Great Pyramid of Ghis are tragically ruined along with the largest castle in Westeros, Harrenhal.
"Finally, perhaps the most mysterious of them all, the Five Forts at the edge of the Eastern world. They are made from the same rare stone as the foundations of the Hightower. See," he turned and pointed to the base of black rock where the original parts of the castle were still visible, "some of it has been preserved. You will be permitted to walk these old walls and explore some of the tunnels. The boat leaves when the Hightower shadow touches the harbour entrance. Do not be late. Private journey costs more than any of you lot can afford."
Their boat latched onto a unsteady wharf at the base of black cliffs. Up close, they were horrifying, violent things that leered over the boats brave enough to approach. The rock was unstable, shedding dangerous cleaves into the water which had built up a beach around the island.
To reach the castle, Gilly climbed the network of stone-cut stairs and wooden ladders that scaled the cliffs. Half an hour later, she made it to the lowest level of the castle. It was an open courtyard of polished black stone which wrapped around the castle. It was framed by a balcony of waist-high rock and beyond that – an uninterrupted view of Old Town. Distance improved it, Gilly realised, finding that the city beyond had its own kind of nostalgic beauty.
The curve of the ocean beyond the city reached further. There was a line of ships on the horizon moving parallel to the coast. A shipping lane, their guide had mumbled, wandering by with his robes flapping in the wind. Gilly thought they looked like gulls, drifting lazily on the waves.
Not all of the balcony facade was intact. On the far side, facing the other bay, a large section had fallen into the water and lay below, waves crashing over it. The remains were melted, almost liquid where they formed odd pools of rock on the tiled floor. Gilly turned to find scars on the black castle walls. There were gashes cut into the stone – the largest interrupted by a window. The entrance to the crypts was below. Gilly approached, eyeing the smooth steps. She was startled as a young child propelled itself out of the darkness with a roar of laughter before joining a waiting group of children.
People and torches lined every corner of the ruined crypts. Sea-folk traversed the endless corridors, walking side-by-side with wealthy merchants and the occasional maester. The place was a curiosity. A relic and certainly tamed by immensities of time.
Gilly did as the others and took a torch.
STEPSTONES – BETWEEN THE NARROW AND SUMMER SEAS
"Are you sure?" Tyrion asked, as their fleet navigated the ever narrowing waters. What had begun as a few frightening protrusions of rock from the waves had become a forest of foreboding islands, twisted and broken by storms. Half their bodies lay submerged in the water and the rest played havoc with the winds.
Varys held his nerve. "It is here."
The captain was navigating with an old chart which Varys had produced, although he would not say where from other than, "Old friends, new friends..."
"You cannot hide a fleet in these waters," Tyrion lowered his voice. Above, an errant gasp of wind tried to steal a sail. Even the dragon was awake, watching the shadows from the islands pass over the deck.
"I can," Varys insisted.
They were close enough to one island that Tyrion could see where it had been torn apart. Its corpse was layered with black rock, sandstone, a white streak of limestone and then granite dotted with a million shards of pink quartz. The vicious storms tore at each rock differently leaving the islands with unusually violent shapes. Tyrion turned. Behind, the rest of the fleet trailed in single file, copying the movements of the lead vessel. Their convoy trailed around an island and out of sight.
"Varys, you're mad."
Varys was silent. The captain squinted at his chart, holding it up as if to compare to pattern of the islands in front. A moment later he pointed and the ship turned. What had looked like a tiny scrap of island from one side opened up into a thin crescent moon with towering cliff walls and a calm harbour, hidden from the world and large enough for twice their number.
"Varys, you bastard," he amended.
"A truer thing was never said," he replied, slithering away below deck to ruffle the feathers of his birds.
Tyrion sat on deck with the captain's map. It was a fragment of animal skin with marks along each edge showing where it had been sewn to other pieces of a much larger map. The details were burned into the hide and set with resin. Whatever terrible smell this caused had long been worn off by a thousand sailors' hands.
Their harbour was a caldera, open at once side. It lay near the centre of the Stepstones, protected on all flanks by a maze of islands.
"And we are to leave the fleet here?" Tyrion asked, when Varys returned with an armful of ravens. Their claws dug into his robes while each one had a message tied around its black leg. Varys walked over to the edge of the deck, lifted his arm and whispered to the birds. They took flight as one shadow, vanishing into the gap between the cliffs.
"Most of it, yes," he replied, wandering over to Tyrion. "We cannot make port in any of the free cities. A freed army of slaves is not a popular commodity and slaver cities will not tolerate it. They resent what our queen did in the East. Even the remnants of her own blood have disowned her. In trying to be a good queen she has seriously jeopardised her chances of ruling with peaceful measures."
"Now there is irony." Tyrion shrugged. "Mind you, she's not here to rule the East."
"She has no chance of it either. The East is a thousand kingdoms, like these islands. They want no empire."
"I'm not a fool, you know," Tyrion added, watching Varys with surprisingly sharp eyes. "It has not escaped my notice that we're dangling on the edge of Dorne. The Dornish aren't fond of Targaryens never mind slaves."
"Both those things are true."
"Varys..."
"Everybody wants something," he replied cryptically.
TEMPLE OF THE PALE LION - ASSHAI
Daenerys stood at the base of The Wall. It towered over her, jutting up from a wasteland of snow which stretched as far as she could see in every direction. The ice beneath her feet trembled rhythmically with the approach of an army. She knelt, collecting a withered winter rose that had fallen from the wall. Another cluster lay between the cleaves of ice. They were grown into the surface, decorating the wall with a thousand blue stars.
"You see..." the pirate merchant whispered, hidden behind a crack in the glass. Quaithe hid beside, replacing him at the tiny slither in the wall. Beyond was a temple room walled in dragonglass, used by the seers to summon visions from the flames. Usually these were flickers in the dark, like the glass candles. Now the room was alight with flame. It roared around every surface and at its heart, the silver queen.
