FIVE FORTS – YI TI

The blood ran hot, trailing down exposed flesh on his inner thigh – dripping into the foul sand as he staggered along a narrow track of dirt.

It went on forever, diverging a thousand times before meandering toward the infinite where the ground lifted subtly into the dunes. Tents lined it, wall to wall. Some were large, reinforced with bamboo poles from the jungles of Yi Ti. Strings of oil lamps were strung between them, knocking together in a haze of scented smoke. The tents were marked with crude writing painted with animal blood directly onto the fabric panels, identifying the families within. Every now and then their morbid gallery gave way to primitive yards holding starved exotic beasts, shuffling together, mewing at the night. It was a camp of suffering but also of hope. Old enemies gathered together, living in truce. The fear of the unknown was stronger than their centuries of bitter feuding.

A stout, heavily tattooed man stumbled. His skin was made blacker by brutal charcoal patterns pushed under the surface with a scorched blade. Their images of warring gods were old, wrinkled with age and faded in the desert sun. He collapsed against a tent. Knotted hair caught in his cracked lips. He groaned, rolling onto his stomach while the material slid beneath his fingers – so soft, he thought, as it escaped his hold.

A child watched from the shelter of an adjoining tent as the Jogos Nhai warrior died. He left a thick stream of blood soaking through the cloth. As the child drew near she saw the ornate hilt of a knife sticking from the man's naked back, caught in the ribs with the tip pressed to his heart. He died as he killed. The girl spat on him then she retraced his steps, creeping up to the fire where the god-men gathered. Bowls of meat had been abandoned on the outskirts, unguarded as the leaders inched closer to the flames where a silver woman and her oddly dressed man servant drew patterns in the sand. The child slithered along, unseen through the shadows until she reached one of the bowls.

It was stolen within the shudder of a flame.


"Are you certain, Ser?" Daenerys asked her knight, as Jorah pulled back from the crude map drawn in the sand beside the bonfire.

The warrior emperor Pol Qo returned to his place – sheath empty of its jewelled dagger. Two foot shorter than the others with an egg-shaped head, he had a form of sharpness usually seen in the likes of Lannisters. It was his eyes. Almost too large for his face, one had been damaged in battle. Its pupil remained a black marble while the other shrank to a pin in the bright roar of the fire. He knelt, muttering at the picture in the sand then stabbed his finger into Yi Ti's dirtand began adding features onto the Northern lands where his people roamed.

Satisfied, he turned to his rival and whispered something neither Daenerys nor Jorah could understand. So far, the rulers had found a form of peace between them but it is was shaky, like a finger of ice suspended on the lip of a cave, warming in the sun.

"You are from here-" Bu Gai, Yin's fine-boned ruler, dipped a burned twig into the sand representing the Bay of Ice. "The dragon queen, here..." This time he pointed to the shattered realm of Valyria. Then he dragged the stick through it, ruining the land to show it annihilated by the water. "The dragons are all dead. You are queen of nothing. We, princes of nothing. Gods laugh."

Jorah sighed in frustration. Progress was slow and the language difficult. At least they were not dead. The rulers of the hoard were curious and for the moment, that was enough. "Yin, oldest trade city in the world, you have ships." He moved their attention back to the coast. "All we need is one and a small crew to-"

"No Yin." Bu Gai interrupted, brushing his hand over the sand, erasing the great city from the map as he had Valyria. "Gone."

"Gone?" Jorah asked. Bu Gai nodded. He watched the man carefully. His soft flesh was littered with wounds, most healed months ago but whatever he had escaped, it must have been carnage for an emperor to feel its touch.

Bu Gai was still sweeping his fingertips softly through the sand where his city once stood, eyes glossed by un-shed tears. Gone. Nine thousand years became nothing in one setting of the sun.

Jorah touched Daenerys' arm gently and they turned away from the others. Jorah whispered, "These men are both god emperors of Yi Ti. I have heard the stories of Bu Gai and the usurper from the Jogos Nhai, the warlord Pol Qo. He is a fierce conqueror with a powerful sorcerer in his company. Very dangerous men, your Grace. Bu Gai holds the capital, Yin and controls the nation's trade. Pol Qo has the vast majority of land and ransoms the capital with food shortages and a constant threat of war."

"What are they doing together in the desert?"

"They and a dozen other tribes have been chased here by calamity. Bu Gai says that the glorious city of Yin has been overrun by cannibals, pirates and hoards of monsters. Pol Qo has fled an influx of 'unclean' from the Far East. I believe he means the same displaced peoples as Bu Gai though the two will not agree. Both argue that their terror is worse than the other. Either way – their lands have been invaded by murderous groups escaping some kind of devastation in the cold lands beyond the edges of their nation. They are hiding here, under the protection of 'old magic'. Pol Qo wants to burn our heads in the fire as an offering. They did not kill us because Bu Gai thought we were messengers of the gods descending the sacred tower."

"They must be disappointed."

"Aye," Jorah agreed.

"Show them the rest of the map you saw in Asshai. Knowledge is all we have to trade with."

"As your Grace wishes, though we'd be safer to climb that tower and try our luck with the dragon."

"And starve? Only those that dare to reach possess Fortune's fruit."

"Those that build their fire on the cabin wall, burn." He countered, wishing that he'd been more measured in his teachings. The queen was a quick though selective study. He had tried to temper her will with philosophy but their discussions reached the same end. Jorah could already guess the words forming on her lips, words he had heard her utter from the Red Waste to the pyramid at Meereen. He dropped his head before she could finish, knowing he had lost.

"Fire does not burn a dragon."

"I cannot fault you there." Jorah returned to face the fire and the restless pack of men basking in its light. They assembled like a lord's dogs gone wild with only the faint memory of obedience keeping them from tearing each other apart. Each set of eyes held close watch and Jorah wasn't convinced that they were entirely naive to the Common Tongue.

Jorah picked up the long stick and started to extend the boundaries of the Eastern world, looping the shores of Asshai down into Ulthos before finishing the enormous stretch of land beyond the Mountains of the Morn. The men whispered amongst themselves as he drew, shuffling toward it in astonishment. Three thousand years of exploration and they had barely made a dent in the continent. Jorah stopped at the Northern edge and held out his hand, silently asking for the food and water that was promised. It was given and finally they ate.


Jorah continued to trade for each part of the map. Soon they had the promise of safety, provisions for their travel and the extremely unusual request of a saddle-craftsman's services. When the map of Essos was complete, Daenerys asked her knight to leave.

"No," was Jorah's initial response. "These men are dangerous, Daenerys. Pol Qo still believes you are a white-haired witch. He'd cut your throat in a moment. I will not-"

"You will do exactly as your queen commands," she insisted firmly. "Go. I will be safe enough. Ser, I'll not have that look from you. If these men wished to turn on us, your disapproving glares do little but stall our end. There can be no doubt that you are a skilled warrior but four-hundred thousand starving mouths will make short work of you and your pretty sword."

"That many?"

"More... I need you to trust me."

He was not happy but Jorah retreated to the safety of the Fort's steps. Although the tribes had converged on the buildings for their magical protection they refused to come near the walls. Jorah noticed the two princes send away their guard. Three royals were left, sat at the fire. Daenerys looked wild, caught by the tips of clawing flames. They reached for her, twisting against the gentle wind in want of her flesh. She may have sat on a cold stone throne at the heart of Meereen but she was meant for the desert. The wilderness of men's hearts did not frighten her.

A skinny child picked through the abandoned food, hidden by a line of shadow. Jorah watched. The child wore the vibrant green sash of the mountain clans. Those were a proud people, strong and unnaturally tall according to the stories his father used to tell. Jeor had been jealous of the jungle nations. All that wood, he used to say. Bears valued the commodity. There was so little of it, rising out of the bare rock of Bear Island. His home was beautiful but it was harsh. The mainlanders called them 'proud'. Pride was the only honourable choice of those that had so little. He wondered if these men were proud of their desert hovel – if they valued the sand slum or if it was vengeance that held their peace.


BEAR ISLAND

271 AC

At seventeen, Jorah Mormont was too slender for his father's liking. Tired of the monotony he'd escaped into the woods and now perched at the cusp of an unnamed waterfall. There were hundreds of them, scattered over the vicious rocks that built the island. The roar of water mingled with the sway of Bear Island's pines.

The stream beside had almost frozen, a process that began at the edge where the slower currents formed impossible, white sculptures. Brute force from the churning water snapped them free, setting them to sail like tiny ice ships. Jorah threw pebbles at one icy raft as it made its way toward the drop. Inevitably it vanished, smashed to pieces far below.

Crack.

In the depths of the forest, a pine broke apart. It cried like a fox, bleeding out into the snow. A few minutes later the old giant fell through the other trees and crashed across the ground. Axes attacked, cutting it into finely crafted beams to repair the village hall after the last storm. His father was there, leading the loggers.

"What are you doing out here?"

Dacey Mormont, a few years older but twice as fierce, scrambled over the rocks. She found Jorah perilously close to the drop, sitting on the last rise of ice before the fall.

"Prince..." she teased, in her usual greeting. It was a great joke between them since they were small. Dacey had always protected the young Mormont heir, as if she were his king's guard. "Mother says I should let the wolves have you but I told her that your meat was too tough for wolves."

She hopped across the ice-locked stones in the river, scaling them with the grace of a Southern lady. It was an ironic charade. Dacey Mormont would sooner carve a man than wed him. Jorah had seen her collection of swords once and she could wield each one. Those slither of steel were her children.

"If you'll not do as your father bids then you shall do as I command." Dacey nudged the back of his shoulder with a stick.

Jorah brushed her off. "Leave me. You have disturbed the peace. A habit of yours."

"You and your peace," she prodded him again, sharper this time. "Peace is the town bell, marking the hour. You have to be prepared for the rest."

"And what is the rest?"

"The rest is chaos, little king." This time she hit him across the back of the head with her stick.

"Leave off, Dacey!" Jorah grumbled.

The she-bear considered her cousin. He had not been the same since returning from the frozen lands. She'd stayed on the cliffs, camped for days under the bleeding tree, awaiting his boat. When it arrived, she was the first to pull Jorah ashore. His face had been paler than the snow as resisted her hold, scaled the beach and headed directly to Mormont Keep where he sat in silence for hours in the place his mother died.

"You look like a proper Wildling, you do – sulking in the snow. Are you a Wildling, cousin?"

Anger flared across his steel eyes. He turned, standing on the rock. "Do not call me Wilding!"

Dacey backed toward the safety of the pines. He followed, drawn away from the stream's edge. "Wildings sit in the snow with naught to do," she continued, twirling the stick playfully from hand to hand as though it were a sword. "So I thought you might be one."

Jorah scavenged a pine branch from the snow and brandished it. His hand was steady, the stick poised. He parried her first playful lunges then tried a few of his own. Their sticks met, slapping together.

"Very nice," she praised, letting him meet her several times. "You are improving."

"You are not trying," he replied, noting the hand pinned behind her back.

She answered by whacking him across the knees. When he fell to the snow she levelled the stick at his neck, winning. "Again."

He swiped her stick away with his glove. "I know what you are trying to do. You need not bother."

"Oh believe me, I do this for myself, not you." They began to fight. "It would be embarrassing to watch the Lord of Bear Island fall by a squire's sword."

"I am not that bad. You are uncommonly good That is your problem. No perspective." Then he realised why she had climbed all the way up here. It wasn't to spar. "No – no... You cannot use me as an excuse!"

Momentarily distracted, Jorah managed to knock her stick away. Dacey collected it from the snow. "I'm not going to meet some snivelling mainlander lord!" she hissed, attacking with a fresh wave of violence.

"Like it or not, you are a lady." He had to pause to fend her off. "Ladies marry lords. That is how it works."

"I'll show you how it works," Dacey easily knocked Jorah onto his back with her stick. "Is that what you're going to do? Steal a noble lady and marry her? I saw you with that one last Spring." She allowed Jorah a moment to collect himself from the ground. "Quiet little thing – strange hair."

"Mayrel Glover," Jorah met her new flurry of attacks. "Dacey, you cannot leave the lord waiting in the long house. It is rude. Your mother and my father would not approve."

"Will you accompany me back?"

Jorah's stick snapped in half under a well placed strike from her. "Fine."

"I'd rather range beyond the Wall than go through any more of these tiresome courtships," Dacey admitted, as they scaled the narrow path cut into the rock. They used the girths of pine trees for holds, clinging to the bubbled bark, lowering themselves as they had done a thousand times throughout childhood. The children of Bear Island scampered over the treacherous interior for as long as the light would allow.

"You cannot join the Night's Watch either."

"I don't see why not."

"Aside from the immutable fact that you are a lady – it would never be permitted by your mother. You are to command the armies when Garrow has that heart attack he keeps threatening us with."

She nearly fell from the cliff in surprise. "Are you certain? Do not tease me, cousin or I'll leave your body in the woods. If the wolves won't have you the crows will."

"I swear. Father was discussing Garrow's succession. So you see, you can't go off hunting Wildlings."

Jorah was an oddity. Most children had several siblings, particularly in the North. So many children died of the fierce cold that noble couples had as many as they were able to protect their reign. They roved in packs while Jorah was left alone – the prized son.

"What's that?"

"What is what? Oh. Rock fall by the looks. Half the cliff has come down." Jorah replied, as Dacey darted from the track and disappeared into a patch of saplings. "Come back!"

He had no choice but to follow, pushing aside the soft brush. Jorah found her at the yawning mouth of a brand new cave. Ice and dirt fell around its edges like a filthy veil. A freezing shower of water brought out the thin veins of gold in the black rock. Pieces of it shed onto the ground where they stood.

"Now you have seen it – can we go?"

Dacey was intrigued, edging toward the ominous creation. The quakes were always building things. The fisher-woman told stories about the night of violent shaking a hundred years ago that dragged Seal Rock out from the waves. "Come on, prince, or are you afraid of the dark as well as the snow?"

"The only thing I fear is your sense of adventure. Dacey! Dacey..." Jorah stepped out of the pale light and into the shadow of the cave. It smelled strange – stale. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Macey was further in, kicking at another pile of rubble. There was nothing in the cave except for a stream of water, gushing violently in the unseen heart. "Satisfied? Who is this patient lord awaiting your return? I bet it's a Stark..."

"Not a Stark. A Tarly."

"I am immune to your lies."

"Blackwood," she admitted.

Jorah broke into warm laughter. It echoed around the cave, stealing away into its depths. "You have no need to fear. If a Blackwood awaits you, your mother has no intention of marriage. He is here to discuss a military campaign."

She reeled around, nearly running him down. "Then I am late!"

"Obviously. That was your intention." Dacey ended up in his arms. "Careful, damn near ran me over with your haste."

Crack.

"Did you hear something?" Jorah eyed the cave. Nothing.

"No. Come on," she grabbed his arm, dragging Jorah back to the forest.


FIVE FORTS – YI TI

"Where are those bastards off to?" Jorah asked, as the squat horsemen of the Jogos Nhai abandoned the fire to roll up their thatched rugs. Sharp whistling bounced between them while the odd striped horses began to rear up, kicking against their pens in expectation.

Daenerys roamed toward him wearing a new shawl gifted by the men. She had been alone with them for many hours. She offered nothing in reply, stopping short of his chosen place on the stone steps. Daenerys held out her hand. "I need the horn."

"You didn't..."

"I did. Ser, the horn."

"Khaleesi..." he protested but handed over the dragon horn as commanded. "Drogon is just as like to burn all your new friends as they are to slay him."

The men moved their camp back, clearing a space for the dragon to land. Most had to be hustled by the prince of Yin, unconvinced of the mythical creature's existence. Daenerys turned the horn over in her hands. It was an unassuming thing, broken and worn. The High Valyrian inscriptions were inlaid with the tiniest fragments of dragonglass.

"What do you hope to achieve by bringing Drogon down from his perch?" Jorah continued, shaking his head in that frustrated manner of his. "These men, their ancestors did not bend to the Valyrians when they had a dozen dragons. It is not like Slaver's Bay, your Grace – or Westeros. These are old people with thick superstitions and an unsurpassed history of violence. Dragons are unlikely to enamour them to your cause."

"I realise that," she replied patiently. "Many of the Jogos Nhai riders have seen wild dragons near the mountains."

"Then why?"

"They have offered to build us a saddle, so that we may ride our 'fire-demon' to the West."

Jorah was perplexed – an expression the queen found distinctly amusing on her knight.

Drogon landed gracefully in the cleared area by the fire. His wings blew it to ashes while his clawed feet trampled straight through the hot coals, spraying soot into the air. The creature was wary of the men, keeping the elongated talons on his feet lifted slightly while his tail flicked from side to side, grazing against the black stone walls of the fort.

"Sh... Sh..." Jorah calmed the dragon, reaching up to pet its nose like he did the horses. Drogon chirped, blinking curiously.

A dozen leather workers from the horse tribe arrived laden with goods to construct the saddle. They shied away from the creature while Jorah settled him down, belly to the sand. When the dragon was breathing slowly, edging toward sleep, Jorah nodded at the queen.

"They may approach," Daenerys said. "Ser Jorah – stay with them."

Jorah nodded. His new friends spoke no Valyrian at all. They chewed some kind of horrid root, spitting all over the sand every few minutes. "Don't mind them," he whispered to the dragon. Drogon opened one eye in response. "If they become too annoying, I shall let you eat at least two of them."

Meanwhile Bu Gai led the queen towards his royal tent. A harem of young girls rustled around the edges, cross-legged on colourful mats. This tent had its own fire with a sickly sweet liquid boiling furiously at the centre.

"Daughters of the Jinqi, rescued from Pol Qo. He calls them 'gift'. Sit, dragon queen."

Daenerys avoided the stark blue eyes of the women. "I said I would try. This may not work."

"Understand," the prince replied. He sat on a small stool opposite her while one of the women spooned the liquid from the fire into a cup. Fire was nothing to the dragon queen, who held the cup without any cloth to protect her skin from the heat. There was magic in her, of that Bu Gai was certain. Pol Qo had his sorcerer, why not him? "Valyrians, they imported this for their dreamers. Many years ago. The Asshai'i try to trade for it but we will not."

"You do not approve of magic?" Daenerys lifted the cup to her nose, immersing herself in the scent of lotus and barley.

"Magic did this," he gestured to the tent. "It tears apart the world. Over and over like the rising of the sun. We are at dusk. The night awaits. I want to know what it holds."

Daenerys was not sure she wished to know what the night held. What if she lacked the courage to face it? "To the dawn..." She lifted the cup to her lips.

"Drink all."


CITADEL – OLD TOWN

"What are you going on about?" Sam held up his hands, trying to slow Gilly down. Her lips were moving so fast in bizarre whispers that he was certain she'd learned a foreign tongue off those merchants in the market. He took the coin from her fingers, if only to stop her waving it in front of his face. "I can't understand a word. Why the coin?"

Gilly rubbed the middle of her head and started strutting back and forth in front of the fire. Little Sam fussed nearby, sensing his mother's unrest. "Your maester," she repeated, trying to calm her breathing, "is trying to kill you."

"Rubbish..." Sam insisted. "I mean sure, he's a dangerous sort – liar for sure, definitely a thief. How could he kill me with a coin? I'm not a great fighter but I like my chances against a bit of silver."

Gilly shared the stories of Old Man Hightower and by the time she'd finished, they were sitting together on the bed, holding hands, facing the flames. Another shower of rain crept in through the window. It trapped the candle smoke in the tiny stone room which felt more like a cell every day.

"We can't leave," Sam shook his head. "There is too much left to learn and no other maester will have me. I have to have apprenticeship to a maester for access into the vaults."

"He will kill you," Gilly squeezed Sam's hand. "All he wants you for are stories from beyond the Wall. Those you already shared. There's nothing else he needs."

"I could lie," he shrugged. "Make him think I know something more. String him along. Worked on my father for years. It'll be fine."

"Sam – you're an honest person."

"That's why it'll work. We can't hide from what's coming. Marwyn's all the hope we've got."

"He is a murderer..."

"That is true for most of the realm." The heavy purse from Hightower rested on the bed with them. Sam looked at it. "There's money for a ship, horses, bribes – enough to last us quite some time."

"The Old Man had his own stories of the North. Perhaps one of those might tempt the maester long enough. There's more. He had a dragon egg."

"What?!" Sam regressed to childhood awe. "Those are very very rare! Forget a ship. You could buy a fleet."

"He found it in the Hightower. When I showed him the coin, he thought I'd come to kill him for it. There was more in the labyrinth, relics of the last war."

"Gilly – you should not go back there. He may not be so generous the next time."

"He won't even know I'm there. I'll be a shadow – you be a raven."


BEAR ISLAND

271 AC

Crack.

Jorah stopped. He was in a narrow track of ice, powder snow in four foot walls either side and a sharp valley drop to his left where the same deceptive layer of snow came fifteen feet up the pine trunks. A slip was death. Anything that fell in there would not be found until the next summer.

"Keep up!" Dacey called from in front.

"Did you hear something?" Jorah asked, eyeing the forest behind. He was sure something was following them. "A wolf, perhaps."

"The wolves won't be out in this," Dacey replied. "You are going to make me later than I already am."

A few minutes passed until Jorah heard it again. It was the sound of pine branches snapping. "I think it's a bear."

Dacey stormed back toward her cousin. "You worry more than that nursemaid of ours. Bears don't come this way. Not with snow like this. It's probably ice in the trees. There's a bit of wind. Now can we hurry please?"