TUMBLETON – WESTEROS

Wolves howled at the rising moon. It was red. Low in the sea. Clawing up from beyond the edge of the world. Bathing in the fires of the forgotten sun. Bruises marred its surface, grey against the blood. She danced with the world, over and over, chasing the night – fleeing the dawn. If they rose together – a star and its pale shadow, Winter would soon follow with the turning of the tide.

Nymeria's pack was vast, wandering the Riverlands during the long frozen nights. They pawed at wet grass, arching their backs and rustling thick manes of fur against the crisp air. With pointed ears pinned back and snouts black with a kill, the half-light caught in their coats, scattered by a dusting of snow. Nymeria wove through her pack, nudging the others gently aside until she emerged at a break in the forest. The sunken basin of Tumbleton lay below. It was concealed by a fierce labyrinth of grass, grown out of devastation. Life fed on death. The world forgot. Horror grew to beauty.

They fanned out into Tumbleton, chasing water birds that had crept from the protection of the river to feast on insects. Feathers and panicked squawking followed their nightly run. One of the smaller wolves dragged a duck through the reeds. It was limp against the wolf's jaw but one dead eye remained open, staring at nothing.

Nymeria paddled into a narrow fork of the murky river and climbed onto the barren rise of land. The mud was black under her paws, devoid of life. It had been cursed by dragon fire, poisoned by magic. The wolf stopped, face to face with Vermithor's skull. Panting, the direwolf circled the dragon corpse, prowling through the empty rib cage, sniffing the scattered vertebra where a tail curled through the silt. Hundreds of scales caught the moonlight, scattered around the body like stars.

Her pack began to howl. Nymeria emerged from the remains and looked to the evening sky. There, within the curtain of a galaxy, was an enormous bird gliding towards them. No. Not a bird. Something else. Something terrifying.

Nymeria snapped at her pack, scattering them into the reeds until they vanished through the mist.

Silverwing circled, dipping the edge of her wing into a current of air, letting herself sink lazily. She landed beside Vermithor, cautiously approaching the bones. Gently, she nudged her snout to his. The bone was cold. She retreated, laying her enormous body on the black mud beside him. Death's bride. Far away and out of sight, Nymeria watched the dragon play with the bones. Trapped by grief. The wolf's white eyes rolled.

Ayra woke with a gasp, clutching her chest. She felt as if her heart had shattered and the pieces lay on the marble floor like the dragon's scales. Falling back, she pressed herself to the cold stone. Sweat dripped down her cheek.

"A girl has had a dream," Jaqen H'ghar lingered by the pool of water, a thief in the moonlight. He often perched on the silver edge, considering the certainty below. The purity of death and those that sought it – their faces covered the walls. Dead but forever alive. Life itself was the greatest lie. Only those that let it go were truly free.

"It was not a dream," Ayra insisted, stubbornly rolling over to face the fire. It crackled in constant rebellion to the silence. Every night Ayra wandered the Northern lands, running with her pack. She smelled the snow in the air, tasted fresh blood and chased the shadows through the night. Wolves were no one.


THE NARROW SEA

Sailors gathered around a thick, soot-stained candle carried with them over the seas. They set their drinks to the side, struck a match and lit the gnarled remains of wax. The wick folded down, recoiling from the heat. Tryion shifted his body into a pile of cushions with a better view of the spectacle. Games were afoot. Tryion was fond of those. His glass missed the edge of the table as he set it down. Wine flowed over the wood in a pink tide, vanishing through the cracks between the floor boards.

Men from both crews swayed around the growing flame as vipers from the sand, chanting lost seaman's words. One at a time, they held their palms over the quivering tip where the flame became nothing. Then the others counted.

"Bisy, lanta, hāre – oh!" They'd shout in dismay, as a hand was pulled away with blistered skin. Tyrion had seen this game before. It was a favourite of Shae's. That woman's skin was made of dragonglass. "Bisy, lanta, hāre, izula..." They never got any further than four.

"All right!" Tyrion declared to the men. "You've convinced me!" Despite no one asking. Sailors would never dare ask lords to join their foolish fun. "Arm in the fire – yes?"

The sailors bore burned flesh and tried to warn him away. Tyrion drank of their wine, traced the horrific scar on his face from battle and laughed with them, thrusting his forearm over the flame.

"Bisy."

For a moment there was nothing. The light touched him and danced across his flesh as a ghost passes through dreams.

"Lanta."

Beckoning warmth. A pleasant purr of tepid stone on a cold morning. Leaning on the short rise of balcony overlooking King's Landing with the waters pulling back from the rock thinking, 'perhaps'.

"Hāre."

Sudden, violent pain. He flinched.

"Izula."

His hair disintegrated into vapour. The skin below blushed. His arm tried to flee but Tyrion held it firm with his other and focussed on the dancing flame. For a moment, he thought he heard a filthy whisper in the light.

"Tōma."

Tyrion's arm shook. The skin burned, rippling and blistering, falling away like sheets of parchment. Pain stabbed through him leaving a veneer of salt over his eyes. The sailors' excitement turned to concern. Together, they murmured, "Byllie..."

"Argh!" Tyrion fled he flame, plunging his arm into a goblet of wine. A dozen hands clapped onto his back, celebrating his victory. He barely felt them over the agony. Tyrion had suffered worse injury on the edge of a blade but there was a certain ruthlessness about fire. It was violence made liquid and it lingered, living in the wound like a vengeful spell. It was cruel.

"The small troll wins!" One of them announced joyfully in Valyrian, dropping an inconsequential bag of winnings on the table in front of Tyrion.

The familiar crunch of coin held no allure. "A gift – to your health," Tyrion rejected it, resulting in another cheer and fresh pitcher of wine set beside him. He withdrew his arm from the goblet and inspected the ruined patch of skin. Wine had caused his rash bravery; it would solve the crippling pain.

The Unsullied did not partake of the festivities. They sat rigidly around the edges of the room like plinths of a temple. Their dark skin was a novelty to Illyrio's crew. In vain they offered them wine and exotic dried fruits.

"Not bad," one of the sailors took a place beside Tyrion. His leather belt bore the imprints of the Volantian motto, accentuated with a few semi-precious stones from Myr. "The Lord of Light favours you."

Tyrion found that amusing, laughing into his wine. "The God of Fools, I rather," Tyrion insisted. "Your Lord has venom." He showed the sailor the wound which had begun to peel away. "If this is favour, I would hate to provoke ill tidings."

"You serve the dragon queen," the sailor clarified. He produced a dirty length of bandage which he wrapped around the imp's arm, pulling it tight. "The red priests build pyres in the streets of Volantis and the people dance all night to the flames, calling forth the fire. They say that she is a god reborn. Her dragons are gifts for her battle with the night. The winds grow colder while the fires stay warm."

"Is that what they say... The last time I was in Volantis at Illyrio's grace, the red priests were kept to the fringes of the city – a few fragile voices in a twisting mass of a dozen gods."

"No longer." The sailor lowered his voice, moving with Tyrion to a more private corner. "Those that oppose the Lord of Light are sacrificed to his glory. Their teachings have made the city rulers powerful. The uprising of the merchant-quarter was crushed in weeks. I've seen it begin in Pentos. Some among our crew are devout. They spread the word wherever we make port. The game is their test."

"And you – are you one of the devout?"

"I am Braavosi, my Lord."

"Braavos is not-"

"It is all the same to the many faced god," the sailor interrupted, his words like silk. "We left our gods when we left our masters. I remember the first red priests to arrive in the city, gathering the poorest to market corners. They vanished as smoke after the rains." The sailor went quiet, his eyes pausing on the candle. The sailors had begun their game anew. Around they went. Over and over. It ended the same. Cheering – blood – another in arm in the flame. "Have you an interest in Braavos?"

Even drunk, Tyrion held back his answer. "It is an interesting place."

"The Braavosi serve no gods, be they man or dragon."

"Their god is gold and they mine it as they once did in the pits of Old Valyria," Tyrion pointed out carefully, lowering his voice to a hushed slur, "now they mine it from men's pockets. I do not judge your city or its people but one god is as good as the next be they made of whispers, blood or gold."

"Is it true, you have a dragon?"

"Come..." Tyrion relieved the sailor of his glass. "Let me show you what happens when the gods touch the world."


"Rhaegal – that is his name," Tyrion leaned heavily on the rail. Though the ship rocked gently, the motion threatened to knock the unsteady imp flat on his face. The wine was stronger than he imagined or he'd consumed more than he meant to.

The dragon landed on the side of the deck with an ungainly flap of his leather wings. It made the sails billow momentarily and the ships knock together where the ropes pulled them close. Then the dragon stepped onto the deck and settled into the pile of discarded sails and bits of fishing net that it called a nest. The sailor watched in a chaotic mixture of alarm and awe. The sight sobered him.

"Dragons are not real. They are – stories. Lies from South. Memories of the ones that-"

"Enslaved you?" Tyrion offered. "Dragons are quite real. As real as the mountains they slept in and the ruins of Valyria that smoulder in the sea. I have sailed those waters and seen what lives there now."

Rhaegal appeared more a sea monster than child of fire. Threads of weed were caught in his emerging horns. His scales rained salty water over the deck while smoke drizzled from its snout. He shook his oversized head, pawed at the deck then turned his golden eyes on the moon. Yes, thought Tyrion, a beautiful, green serpent risen from the depths.

The sailor knelt before the dragon, recanting old Valyrian words banished from his tongue. They haunted him along with the memory of their brutal civilisation. Tyrion could not tell if it was a prayer or a curse. Instead, he focussed on the dragon. Rhaegal was creature no different to a lion or a bear. They were all the same – living and dead. Men hammered out their likeness, wearing breastplates with fearsome styles but underneath the silver, jewels and pelts they remained men – men wearing masks. Tyrion knew that he was no more a lion than his poor young nephew.

Two figures crossed the narrow bridge between the ships.

"I held those eggs," Illyrio continued their conversation, as he and Varys appeared on deck. Illyrio was amazed by the dragon, reaching out as if to touch it. "Carried them from shore to shore. Slept with them under my bed and near drowned with them in a shit hole at the edge of the world. To think that this is what slumbered within the rock. I thought the dragons were dead."

Varys' eyes were unusually dark. A spider's eyes. Mist crept over the water, kicked up by the waves. "Is that why you sold the children to the Dothraki?"

"I thought Drogo was their best chance at an army." He replied, lowering his hand, unwilling to approach the dragon. His reply was thick with regret. "There were not exactly suitors at every corner of the kingdom looking to align themselves with the Mad King's spawn. Hated royals with no kingdom, no gold and no family? It was only a matter of time before an assassin made it through my gates. They were safer with the Dothraki savages. The horse lords cared nothing for Westeros' problems." Illyrio watched the dragon fold its wings down and chirp softly. Illyrio never imagined that they would behave like birds. "It was a good match – for both of them. The boy with his army, the girl a queen."

"Banished to the outskirts of the world to be forgotten." Varys' reply slipped through the air. "How many ships did you build with horse-gold, I wonder? This one? I see you paint it red to honour the Lord of Light – curious for a man that has no gods. You and I spurned them long ago."

The whispers of the sailor stained the air. His half-drunken lips kissed the ship's deck. Tyrion gripped the rail tight as he felt his body stumble. He watched Varys and the trader from Pentos curiously as they moved closer, keeping their distance from the dragon. This was not a meeting of chance.

"I brought what you asked," Illyrio added, nodding at Varys. "Kept is safe, as you asked. Fed your little birds from Braavos to Meereen, as you asked." He opened his arms. "Your word is my cause."

Varys shifted and Tyrion realised that he was wearing a thick leather belt beneath the layers of his robe. Strapped onto this was a scabbard. The sword's handle was jewelled, catching the moonlight as though it were alive with magic of its own. It looked like a cousin of the moon. Swirls of sapphire, lapis and white gold danced together. What was Varys doing with a sword? His weapons were words, sharp and deadly. "Varys?"

Varys ignored the dwarf. His eyes flicked to the dragon and then roamed over Illyrio's enlarged figure which shifted as the mists encroached the deck.

"Yes, I do owe you thanks," Varys replied evenly. He casually withdrew the sword from sheath and laid it harmlessly across his palms. It was a thing of beauty, drowning in the moonlight. The blade had stylised Valyrian text embossed into the steel – the words for which it was famous. Truth was an unusual sword – short, wide and ceremonial with unicorn silk tassels tied to the handle or so the legend went. Perhaps it was horsehair. Who could know? "I have had very few possessions in my life. The curse of an orphan. Even some that I was born with were taken from me. This – I took." The blade was flipped over in his palms. The edge caught his skin, coating itself in Varys' blood. He did not flinch. Pain was nothing.

"It was my pleasure to mind it for you," Illyrio assured him. "We are friends."

Varys switched his hold, turning it on Illyrio. Blood dripped along the steel edge. Illyrio lifted his hands in defence. Tyrion stumbled closer, stepping awkwardly over the praying sailor.

"Careful, Varys," Illyrio warned, genuinely believing Varys meant no harm. "Even after all these years, it is still quite sharp. Valyrian steel is – unique. Something about the way the metal is cast."

"I am always careful," he replied heartlessly. Before Illyrio could move, Varys lunged.

Truth cut a passage into Illyrio's flesh, parting his ribs, tearing the lungs – birthing through his back. Illyrio looked down to find Varys' fist and the jewelled handle of the sword pressed against his chest. There was no pain, only the shock of death. Blood welled up Illyrio's throat, choking him before it spilled down his chin, spoiling his elaborate beard. He coughed violently. The blood sprayed over Tyrion's face. Shocked, the dwarf stood, open mouthed at the slaughter above.

"My – friend..." Illyrio reached forward, grabbing onto Varys' silk clothes. He clutched at them as if he were grasping for life.

Varys walked Illyrio forward with the sword through his body, forcing him toward the dragon who perked up, showing an interest in the smell of blood. "You were my gaoler," Varys whispered. "Without me you'd be cowering over a beggar's bowl or rotting in a ditch fighting someone else's war." Then, Varys leaned in, embracing Illyrio one last time. Lips to his ear he whispered. "Did you truly believe that I would not find out? If a bastard noble twice removed has a bastard of his own, I know. If a royal languishing at the edge of the world breathes, I hear. You – you I feel – and all your sins..."

"Varys – please – I..."

"Do not beg."

Varys, a taller, stronger man than most gave the eunuch credit for, forced Illyrio off the sword's blade. The man went backwards, landing in a pool of blood. A shadow fell over his face. Salt rained. The stench of decay filled his world. Illyrio clawed at the open wound on his chest but the last of his life seeped over his fingers, spurred on with the ragged hammering of his heart. Then, amid the restless brush of sea against the hull, he heard a curious chirp.

Rhaegal tossed Illyrio into the sails and waited for him to fall, screaming. When he landed, a mangle of fragmented bones and wailing terror, Rhaegal pressed the large body down with his paw to the crunch of bone and slowly chewed the head off. Varys watched, dispassionate. The sailor could not chant for horror. Tyrion placed his shaking hand on Varys' arm.

"Amazing."

"What is?" Tyrion asked cautiously. A monstrous sound assaulted his ears. It was the worst thing he'd ever heard and yet he found that he could not reproach the dragon for its butchery. If you fed an animal it would eat, there was no villainy in that.

Varys let his finger wander down the edge of the sword. "How easy the blade goes in and life comes out. I imagined it would be difficult."

Rhaegal settled down with Illyrio's corpse. The sailors from his ship had abandoned their games and gathered on deck, drawn by the screams only to become fixed in horror. The Unsullied too. They cast uncertain looks between Tyrion and Varys who were equally covered in Illyrio's blood. The sailors shifted. One carrying a rum bottle smashed it against the side of the ship. Roared. Then unleashed hell.

"Varys!" Tyrion cried, as the sailors picked up weapons and launched themselves in a screaming mass.

Varys brandished his blood-soaked sword, cutting down the first drunken man within reach. Tyrion, unarmed, ducked away from swords, iron bars, bottles and lengths of chain whipped through the air. One hit the mast above and sent a shower of splinters across the deck. They bounced through the blood then vanished below the surface. Tyrion slipped. He landed on his back, flailing like one of the large beetles from the desolate shores of Casterly Rock. A scaled paw rested either side.

Rhaegal was pre-occupied with Illyrio's clothes. They were stuck in his claws along with bits of sinew and part of a hand that bore a spear and cluster of skulls. The nightmare of the broken pieces of flesh around him was only a taste. Tyrion contorted his short body to see the Unsullied warring with the sailors. For all their noise and energy, they were easily subdued by the slave army. Soon, corpses lay in a shallow red ocean at their feet.

Calm returned. Shocked, the Unsullied stood over their victims. Tyrion rolled away from the dragon before it noticed his presence. The sailor from the game was the only member of Illyrio's crew left alive. He knelt on the deck – blood washing against his knees as he whispered to the dragon. Varys' sword sliced through the air above.

"No!" Tyrion stopped him, catching onto his sleeve The dwarf was on his stomach, desperately reaching up to the other man. "What are you doing? What is this?" Blood ran down his wrist. "I am – so lost. Please, stop doing that..." he added, hissing sharply to the sailor. The murmurings of gods was not improving Varys' mood. "Stop. Stop." The sailor's lips stilled.

"There are others, on the ship," Varys nodded coldly at Illyrio's vessel, lashed to theirs. "Tell your new friend to return there, sail away and never speak a word." He also commanded the Unsullied to pile the corpses on its deck while the remainder of the crew were kept below. Last to board was the sailor from Tyrion's game. He kicked the boards into the sea and untied the ropes. Missandei joined the men on deck. Her eyes tracked along the dark horizon, checking for ships but they were alone. The twin glows of King's Landing and Pentos breathed life into the underside of roaming storms.

When the ships were free of each other, Varys stood on the thick edge of the bannister, holding a flaming torch against the darkness. With his free hand securely in the rigging, he leaned slightly over the water, tempting fate.

"We will say nothing – nothing," The sailor promised Varys, tossing the final coil of rope at his feet.

"I know," Varys replied. He allowed the sailor to turn before he tossed the torch onto the other ship's deck. It landed in a stream of lamp oil and roared into a wall of flames. Screaming filled the air, rising with the smoke. The ship burned like a dying forge, collapsing in on itself until the dark waters opened and dragged it, along with all the souls on board, into the depths to live in the realm of the drowned god.

The dragon slept through the inferno. A storm that had earlier caressed the edge of sunset, hung over the ship. It rumbled. Light flared and died, hidden by its clouds. Had it come to witness? Did the storm and the sea conspire against them? It started to rain. Cold water washed off the wood, filling the sea with smoke and death. An angry moon hung under the storm, rising in the East – looming over the continent of Westeros like a frightening eye.

"The night is dark and full of terrors..." Tyrion whispered, as he felt Missandei's hand take his.

Varys wiped his sword on his robes and slid it back into its holster. Then he retreated below deck as a spider to his web.


"Speak with me." Tyrion implored.

Varys sat opposite, a candle between them. Tyrion watched Varys through the restless flame, trying to decipher the mask that this man he thought he knew wore from day to day. Missandei listened at the door, laid against the wood where Tyrion had left her.

"Because," Tyrion continued, "I need to understand what happened. There is a ship full of good men beneath us – our own crew are terrified, Missandei will not leave her room and the Unsullied whisper amongst themselves. Is that what you wanted? The queen would have forgiven Illyrio, I am certain."

"You know little of royal forgiveness – or of women. That aside, this is not about the betrayal of children – or the crown – or the fanatics that burn people in the streets for the whispers of gods..." Varys replied calmly. He sat as a statue, reserved and at peace with the horror. He had planned this for so long that it was as if he walked a dream. "Illyrio sold us. The sailors you mourn were your sister's guards, no doubt under contract to take you back to the knife's edge – or worse. Cersei always had a creative flare when it came to the murder of her enemies. The dragon, a creature you pretend not to love, he sold to the nostalgic rulers of Volantis and the Targaryens that linger in the city's heart."

"You killed Illyrio because he sold out our queen." Tyrion realised. Now he understood. If that were true then he could not leave any survivors to share the tale. "Varys you – you could have told me – warned us..."

"Poor actors, all of you," Varys said quietly, inspecting but not drinking of the wine. He never did. Instead, he turned the thick candle, if only to watch the flame move. "That is not why I did it."

Tyrion frowned, wondering if it would be okay to reach toward him. Varys was a man who disliked the touch of others so instead he dipped his head slightly, ducking around the flame. "Why then?" he proceeded softly. "Gods know I'm no innocent man. If we're going to serve the queen together, I have to understand."

"Illyrio was born poor, this you know," he started softly. "He began his work in the employ of a sorcerer, not a very good one, as I've since learned. Illyrio's job was to procure things for the sorcerer which he did through me. Usually this meant obscure or expensive ingredients which I thieved from all corners of the city. Sometimes, though, the sorcerer would ask for something different. Children."

Tyrion withdrew a fraction, anger spawning pity. "Illyrio sold you."

"Not even," he replied, almost in dismay. "The half-wit sorcerer that snatched away my parts and left me to die in the street was a faceless horror – one among a crowd of snakes infesting the city. He came long before my friend, Illyrio."

"Then what?"

"When we were rising in Pentos, I gathered whispers for him. Brought him clients. Shared his profits. When I was coming down the stone steps of his ancient hovel under one of the ailing brothels, navigating the sick and torrents of turned wine, I found that he already he had guests for the evening. I lingered there, in the shadows and watched three terrified children cling to his robes, hiding in the folds of silk while a red priest passed him a gold purse and led the children away. Those tiny eyes saw me, as they climbed the stairs, following the creature in red. There was a moment where I could have stopped her – paid for the children and turned them into little birds but she looked at me – no, through me."

"How old were you then?"

Varys shrugged. "Fourteen."

"A child yourself."

"The stain from Myr had travelled to the city I thought I knew and it was feeding on our fortune. How many red priests have you met?"

"I've seen one in the street – a few more from a distance."

"They all have the same eyes, the same wickedness at their heart. Never trust a creature that whispers to sleeping gods. They are not the friends of men but playthings."

"Varys – you did not have to slaughter all the men. Our queen would not like it."

"My deal with Illyrio was for you and the dragon, separate to Cersei's arrangement. His men were paid to ply you with drink and throw you into the sea. We were to proceed to Braavos to buy the Iron Throne for the Silver Queen with the backing of his friends in the free cities. Order would return. His debts paid and mine."

"They won't support us now..."

Varys looked to the sky – to the storm that casually nipped at the restless layer of mist. "Why ever not?" He replied. "Such a terrible business. Storms in the Narrow Sea."


Missandei wrapped her long, bony fingers around Tyrion's wrist and dragged him by the arm into her room, throwing him against the locked door so hard that he bounced off and hit the wood a second time. She did not light any candles, leaving them both in the dark with the slap of rain against the windows.

"Normally, I'd be flattered-" he started to say, until she covered his mouth with her other hand to shush him. The whites of her eyes were caught in what remained of the moonlight.

"Quiet or he'll hear," she hissed.

"Who will hear? You mean Varys? Missandei-" her hand silenced him again, firm on his lips.

"He murdered two dozen men without a thought."

Tyrion mumbled against her hand until she allowed him to whisper. "Oh he thought about it, he failed to mention it to us, that's all."

"But what kind of man is that?" Missandei knelt so that they were the same height. "He lied."

"Well, he did not say anything at all. A slight but important distinction in his mind." Tyrion rested his hands gently on Missandei's shoulders, holding her steady. "Look I know what you're thinking, it was horrific-"

"Violence does not shock me. I was born to slavers. Murder and violence are all I have known and war, even war with honourable intent, is still awash of slaughter. You think I flinched when our queen raised two hundred crosses with screaming men or burned Astapor to ash? He could have told us, Tyrion. What other plans are in the Spider's shadows? We are all the Queen's council."

"Missandei... Illyrio and Varys – they were thick as thieves." He paused. "Well, they were thieves. That's – not what I was trying to say."

"I know what you were trying to say. I am not a fool. We need Varys to broker a deal with the Iron Bank but..."

"But you do not trust him."

"I do not trust him," she agreed. "Or you."

"Fair enough." Although Tyrion felt a breath of hope that she trusted him slightly more today than she did before. "Do you think you could let go of my arm only I had an accident with a flame."


YIN – YI TI

The ship burned like a scroll tossed into the depths of a lord's fireplace. Cold winds swept down from the cliffs and whipped up the flames while flurries of snow melted and turned to steam.

Daario fled the deck, weaving through panicked pirates trying to board their rescue boat that had pulled alongside. He half-fell into the hatch leading to the lower levels of the deck, catching his arm on a rope half way down that saved him from a cracked neck. Smoke sank into the depths, choking him. Daario wrapped a rag around his face and unhooked a lantern from the wall, holding in front as a faint glow against the smoke. It was like wading through a swamp. He reached out, keeping one hand on the wall while he searched for the pirate queen's chambers.

He kicked in the locked door. One of its hinges clung to the strong wood, leaving it crestfallen. Daario stepped over it, casting a cautious glance at the ceiling which glowed from the fire taking hold above. The underside of the wood could have passed for the innards of a blacksmith's forge. He ducked away from its heat.

Quickly, Daario searched, filling a satchel with deeds, jewels and most importantly, maps. As he turned to leave, part of the deck collapsed into the room, sending a storm of embers into the air. They bit at his face, catching part of his clothes alight. Daario batted at them frantically, throwing his body out into the corridor.

Smoke. He closed his eyes and reached forward with both arms, feeling for the edges of the corridor. The wood remained cool under hand where the water touched the other side. Palms flush, he pressed forward until he tripped awkwardly up the first step of the ladder. Daario collapsed against it, cursing and moaning while more of the ship crumbled into ruin. You're not going to die on a damn ship. He told himself firmly.

He was about to drag his injured body up when someone stepped onto his back, tripped and fell straight over him. Daario groaned, crawling desperately toward the open hatch and fresh air.

The person on the floor behind moaned. He had heard that sound before. It chased him through the city. The undead were aboard.

He kept quiet, repressing the urge to cough the poisonous smoke out of his lungs. The creature that had fallen inside the ship scratched around, blinded as he was. The sounds it mad were enough to haunt any man's dreams.

Higher Daario clambered, scaling the steps until flame beat away the smoke and he emerged onto the burning surface of the ship. Those terrible creatures from the city were climbing up over the rails, using the mooring ropes to scale the edges. Some of them had the bodies of pirates, tearing through the flesh with their bare hands. Others were swarming toward the nearest ship where hoards of pirates fought them off with a clash of swords. Another mast groaned above. Daario looked up to see the wood split. The sails, also burning, dragged it down with another gust of wind. It leered toward Daario – falling...

"Oh shit..." Daario hissed, pushing himself away from the stairs. Injured, he stumbled into the fray. He withdrew his new sword, taking it with two shaking hands. He screamed as he approached the first huddle of creatures, slicing through the first that came at him. He was about to take down another when the mast crashed into the deck and split the back of the boat in half. The deck beneath Daario's feet shifted violently into the air. Daario startled, reaching out with on hand to grip the rail while the undead fell, sliding without control down the burning deck toward the sea.

It took him a moment to realise that several hands had latched onto the back of his shirt, pulling him over the gap between the ships. Even with the heavy sword still in his grasp they managed to throw him onto the safety of the other deck. Daario lay there for a moment. It was serene, staring at the sky while black smoke billowed across it. The cries of war seemed so far away – as did the shrieking of the dragon which circled the fleet, throwing green flame from its throat onto the surface of the water. Yin's wharves had caught now. The fire was creeping along the ancient wood, working its way toward the beautiful city and all its treasures.

A line of horses watched the mayhem from the cliffs. Yin burned. Its harbour burned. The cliffs blackened with heat. A thousand gulls fled, swarming the air. They screeched, chasing the dragon away.