BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE

It was a vision from a Northern man's nightmares; a dragon clinging to a ruined sea stack, kicking bits of rock into the water with a series of loud cracks. As the structure began to collapse, Drogon struggled, scuttling for a place to dig his claws in, sniffing and biting at the unfamiliar surface. In honestly, the outcrop was too small to support his swollen body which had grown so fast he was shedding scales.

Jorah smirked from the protection of the cave. "He looks quite ridiculous."

"I'm not sure he understands how much he's grown since chasing gulls along Slaver's Bay. His days of playing in the cliffs have passed." The light snowfall wasn't helping. He snapped at the flakes while snarling toward the ocean spray. "My brother used to talk often about the dragons that crossed the Narrow Sea and conquered Westeros – of Balerion melting Harrenhal into a grisly ruin and the screams rising off the desert toward Dorne. He relished violence. He was terrified of it." A man like that could never rule. Violence and power swarmed together like fire and blood. "Three dragons to conquer all of this."

"You have three dragons, Khaleesi."

"Drogon is no Balerion." She pointed out, watching wistfully as her child played. "Bantāzma was the largest dragon to live – captured from the far edges of the world and bred with Valyria's native dragons to make them fiercer."

"I have not heard that story," Jorah admitted. "Why was he named after the Long Night?"

"She..." Daenerys corrected. "Bantāzma was beautiful, they said – her black scales tipped in silver. At night, she'd circle the moon like one of the stars. Balerion was a child compared to her. My brother had a locket, gifted from Ser Darry. It came from Valyria and had a figure of Bantāzma etched into the surface and a sapphire set for her eye. I used to steal it and whisper prayers to her when I was very small. He'd beat me for it after and Ser Darry would send us both to bed." She shook her head at how foolish that sounded now. "Lost to the sand... Another relic."

Drogon's saddle remained strapped on, irritating him. Every now and then he lifted his back leg, trying to kick it off.

"He'll settle," Jorah assured her. "See – he's already spied the better perch." Drogon launched off the rock, leaving a hail of stone and shell. He soared up to a much larger stack. Waves and storms ate away the bridge of rock that had once joined it to the mainland leaving a patch of forest marooned on its top. Drogon vanished into the trees, releasing a panicked flock of ravens. "We are heading towards Braavos," Jorah assured the queen. "As the dragon flies, we are no more than a day from the Iron Bank. If only I could sneak a raven, I might be able to send word to your fleet to prepare."

"A day's notice will not turn the tide. Either Varys and Tyrion are ready or they are not. If they are drowned, floating corpses in the sea, then I'll have to find myself another army."

"Pray to the gods that they live or I'll be an old man before you take your place on the Iron Throne."

Daenerys smiled at his teasing, then returned to fire he had made for them in the cavern. It was an ocean cave that ran deep into the island's foundations. Like all the rock on Bear Island, it was inherently warm, feeding of fire writhing near the surface. The whole island was an accidental kiss of fire and water. The cave's ceiling was broken up by pale roots, infecting every wall. Weirwood roots. Daenerys ran her fingers through a thicket, letting their soft curls brush over her skin. Their magic made her soul crawl. Her knight's eyes were upon her so she stepped away. His curiosity was dangerous.

She keeps more secrets now he thought. All women had intrigues, queens more than most. It was the lingering, mournful gazes that he so often caught her in that made him worry. My dreams are real she declared to any who would listen. He had no doubt that they were. What was it that Daenerys saw, looming in their future, that gave her cause to conceal it? He'd follow her anywhere, serve her reign, wherever that may lead. She may not believe it but Jorah would march on the very shore of this island if it were at her command, stand in red waters to his knees until his bones joined the rocks.

"Where are you?" Daenerys stood in front of him, trying to find her knight in his pale eyes. He was lost in thought, drifting from her toward the endless waters of the bay.

"A thousand miles away," he breathed. The fire burned hot between them so he stepped away, taking a seat on a misplaced boulder.

"This cave," Daenerys seated herself opposite. The fire crackled, hissing at the snow whipped into the cave. Born in the South, she'd never seen ice take to the wind except as an abstract capping on far off mountains. Her eyes kept lingering on the delicate flakes dancing near the flames. How fragile they were and yet they swallowed countries. "You have been here before?"

Jorah stared past the flame toward the mouth of the cavern where the sea shone. Day was breaking and it was beautiful. Soon the snows would blow away leaving only blue, stretching above the ice. "Many times, Your Grace," he replied. "I played here as a child – wandering through the caves beneath the island. All the children do. We were wild compared to the houses of the mainland." He paused at fond memories of panicked Lords inspecting their offspring after such adventures. "This cave reaches into the forest and emerges within the pines quite near the village. There is fresh water and game. We'll eat well before we make our final journey into Braavos."

"You look to the sea often," she noted, catching him there again. "Are you waiting for something?"

He shook his head. "No, Khaleesi. Are you worried? The Iron Bank may yet refuse us," he added, when she dipped her head curiously. "Their caution is insidious, they'd snuff the flame for fear of fire. A foreign queen on the back of a dragon is definitely a risk."

"As is a bloody conquest of Westeros. What if I win?" she postured, curving an eyebrow.

"A fair question."

"One they must consider. Their money, all their hundreds of years of careful planning, could be turned to ash in moments."

"They could kill you."

"Better men have tried. Imagine a dragon, free of Lannister debt with control of world capital. The trade waters are mine – the Eastern lands have fallen silent. It is a frightening concept to the free cities. Perhaps I'll make them slaves again, fly my dragons above their marble walls and bring them to kneel amidst the crash of stone."

"That is against your nature."

"They do not know that. Prejudice is a powerful champion. I intend to use it."

"Varys and Tyrion have left their stain on you. Sometimes I hear their scheming in your words."

"Was that not your intention, Ser, in bringing them to my side?"

"To be fair, I thought I was bringing a head – I did not realise it would talk."

Laughter rang through the cave. She wondered how long Jorah would hold that over the imp. "I understand you are itching to kill him but you must be friends now," she scorned him good-naturedly. "By my command you will get on."

Jorah would rather murder the Lannister heir but gave his queen a gruff nod. "Talking is what they do. By the time we arrive in Braavos, they should have had ample opportunity to introduce our terms."


Snow. Daenerys could not get used to the feel of it – sinking into the cold depths. A roar stormed over the lip of the cliff, pushing Daenerys away from the fall. She leaned in conflict, feeling the rush of ice in its breath.

Everything was larger in the North, armoured against the cold with layers of fur, feather and fat. Even the gulls looked too heavy to fly, tumbling in the wind with shrieks. They'd tear their fine Southern cousins apart, flay the flesh from the bone and feast.

Behind, at the forest's edge, a deer picked through the snow. With a white snout, it hunted for slivers of green among the frozen drifts. It had a nest of black-tipped antlers, glistening in the sun with more prongs than she could count. The creature paused when it saw her, black eyes searching the dragon's face. What did it see? She wondered. A pale girl lost at the edge of the world or a dragon, hungry for blood...

Jorah followed the deer, hunting the rabbits that stalked its path. He caught himself staring at the woman beyond, wrapped in fur, fending off the wind. A thick hood draped over her silver hair but Daenerys' eyes cut through the distance between them. How often had he visited this scene? The peace of his dreams was replaced by the foreboding strip of white along the opposing edge of water and the demons that gathered on its rocks. Were they there now, watching him watch them? Armies of the dead from his father's stories... He wondered if Daenerys had seen them in her visions, if those were the secrets she kept pressed to her heart.

"Does the bay ever freeze over?" She asked, when he returned with a pair of bloodied rabbits.

He looked to the water, standing beside her on the cliff. Already it was clogged with the white tips of ice chunks, broken away from the mountains in the Lands of Always Winter. "Never in my time," he replied, "but there are stories of a time when armies walked from our keep to those mountains. Old stories – probably not true."

"Why do you say that, Ser?"

"The stories are mostly songs the children sing," he replied. "Songs of dragons made from ice, dead men that come in the night with eyes blue as the winter skies." Like the one above them now. "Songs of a king and his pale queen. They brought a night that never ends with their cursed union. These are the whispers that unite the North, Your Grace. The terror in our hearts is brewed when we are very small. The bravest of our heroes still quake before The Wall."

"I thought you crawled around The Wall..."

He grinned. "Aye, I did but I was very young and foolish." In truth, Jorah didn't fear The Wall. He revered it. "Before we went back, my father showed me the stains of ash where a hundred Wildlings burned. Even those creatures, fierce as they are, fear death's final curtain lifting."

"Do you mean it?" Daenerys asked seriously, resting her hand on his arm. It made him pause.

"Yes, Khaleesi. There are things beyond that wall with as much magic as your dragons. I know that everyone from Riverrun to Dorne laughs at our words but they are true. I-" he stopped himself before he went too far. He'd seen what the undead made of the living. Those pieces of flesh in the ice. Bits of Wildling arranged like a fucking mosaic. "Varys has been receiving letters from the Night's Watch. Lord Commander Snow swears to have seen these dead men. He may be a bastard but he's no liar."

"How can you possibly know that?"

"He's a Stark," Jorah replied, as if that was explanation enough.

"The gods must wonder why we do it... Why we choose to endure in these places. Let the snows have it..."

"For the same reason you razed cities, Your Grace. I know it may not amount to much looking at it now but this is home. The bones of the North remember that we are here to protect the realms of men. Nothing is beyond the reach of Winter, not even King's Landing. We need that strip of ice and the men that stand along it."

Daenerys closed her eyes. She had seen snow tumble over the blackened ruins of her throne. The North falls...


WHERE THE NARROW SEA MEETS THE SHIVERING SEA

Dead eyes. Varys saw them in the waves. In the sky. In the scales of the dragon and the blade of his sword. A beautiful blade, he lamented, hovering his hand above the Valyrian steel. Truth – the irony was not lost on him. Violence was truth. Footsteps approached. Varys folded the cloth over his most valued possession and turned to find Tyrion.

"Are we here then?" Varys asked, already dressed in his silks. He had them specially embossed with dancing dragons and insisted Tyrion do the same. Appearances were everything at this stage of the game.

Tyrion nodded. "Nearly. We've covered Rhaegal as you requested though I can't say how long that will last." He noticed Varys lingering by the chest housing the sword. Tyrion had not forgotten what happened that night and neither had Varys, if his mournful disposition was anything to go by. He'd been sulking around the ship ever since. Maybe he was missing those vast empty halls of King's Landing. There was nowhere left to pace. "He was your friend," Tyrion added. "A very find friend."

Varys closed the lid on the chest and slid its gold bolt across. "He was dangerous. There are only so many times you can sidestep disaster before you fall through the cracks."

"Do you think that will happen to us?"

Varys wandered past Tyrion and nodded for him to follow. He led them above deck. Tyrion was correct, the Braavaian Costlands drew to an end on their right. The land curved and shattered into islands, clinging to the treacherous waters of the Shivering Sea. Somewhere, amidst that tangle of sea and stone, they'd find Braavos.

"The last time I was here, I walked down from the mountains and crossed the hundreds of stone bridges linking the capital to the mainland," he avoided Tyrion's question. "It's a vile place, built by slaves seeking revenge. That is never a firm foundation for an empire. You can feel their resentment in the walls like a poison."

"They're not doing so badly," Tyrion pointed out.

"Oh, they are rich enough – richer than their masters, one might say. That has not made them happy. I've never lived in more pitiable place." Varys eyed the imp as he climbed onto the rail for a better look. "You are not still concerned, I hope..."

"Trading me back to Cersei for payment of Lannister debts is not a bad play," Tyrion admitted. "Especially for someone as clever as you. I'm quite fond of my head where it is."

"Do you trust me?"

Tyrion looked at Varys for a very long time before answering. "No."

"Good."

"Just remember, the dragon likes me." Tyrion wasn't talking about the queen. "Missandei..." Tyrion bowed his head as she approached, feeling rather awkward from his stance on the rail. For once he was towering above the conversation.

"Another raven came from Grew Worm," she started. "The fleet is safe in the harbour. They've had no word from our Queen. Is that it?" Missandei looked past Tyrion to the tip of the land where the first glimmer of marble walls emerged from the rock.

"Not quite. Anything from our friends in the South?"

"No."

"They are biding their time, I suppose, waiting to see if we are successful before playing their cards on the table. Snakes."

"You cannot blame a creature for its nature," Varys replied.


THE HAUNTED FOREST – BEYOND THE WALL

The dead horse shifted beneath him, flaps of flayed skin hanging loose. Some of it dragged in the snow, held together by fragments of sinew and bone. An ancient forest concealed the horror. Beneath the creaking bowers of Weirwoods and swaying pines, dead men marched without a breath. Their king held back, eyeing the flicker of ice in the distance. He could see it when the Winter winds blew hard enough to bend the forest. He remembered the world from atop that wall – he was king of it all.


PORT MORAQ GREAT MORAQ – THE JADE SEA

"Quick – take the ship 'round there – into the shade of the mountain." Quaithe leaned over the edge of the ship, eyeing the black dot tossed about in the sky at the very edge of the horizon.

"Too shallow – not good," the captain protested.

"You can move the ship or burn alive," Quaithe replied. That was enough for the men. They started unfurling the sails before the captain nodded and left her at the rail. It had to be another one of Daenery's dragons but without its mother, Quaithe feared what it might do.

"You're leavin' us?"

Quaithe climbed down the rope ladder towards a small row boat. Their ship was moored in the dark water where the mountain permanently infringed upon the waves, invisible unless you knew where to look. "I must warn Wreab," she replied. "Whatever is accompanying that dragon, it's headed for the port. He'll want to make himself scarce."

"I'll send one of the men," the captain offered before boldly reaching over the side of the rail, daring to take her arm. "You cannot leave us to the will of a dragon!"

Quaithe levelled her pale eyes on him. They were the only part of her body left open to the world. "The dragon will be on the docks of Port Moraq," she assured the captain. "Stay here. Stay quiet."


Daario eyed the mess of buildings taking shelter in the forest. A line of ships braved the winds screaming along the Cinnamon Straits before tacking against it, listing sharply before passing the jaws of the stone leopards that guarded the port. His fleet approached from the North, enjoying the fair trade winds of the Jade Sea. Viserion loved stretching his golden wings, tumbling and diving. One minute he was sailing between the pirate fleet – clipping the waves and the next, he'd vanished beneath the water, chasing dolphins.

"They're closing the ocean gates!" The man in the crow's nest shouted, leaning over his blackened perch with a spyglass.

Daario stood at the helm of the lead ship. Killing the pirate queen made him king by the law of the sea. He had stood unchallenged, drenched in blood with a Valyrian sword dragging along the deck and a dragon at his back. The cursed creatures of Yin took several of their ships and a small fortune but the rest of the fleet sat low in the water, weighed down with gold. What they didn't have was food.

"Fly the red flag."

It was hoisted behind him, hanging tight in the wind. An hour slipped by. Daario's pirate fleet inched their way toward Port Moraq until they could smell the spices on the air, driving the starving pirates mad. They itched at their swords, lined the rails and draped themselves over the ship masts like gulls.

"The gates are opening..." The watchman followed his shout with a whistle to the captain.

Daario smirked. "Tell your crews, best behaviour," he said, striding between the captains of the fleet. "There will plenty of murdering on the other side of the sea. We're here to trade. Supplies enough to reach Westeros and no more. Understand?"

The whole ship suddenly fell to the side, rocking back and forth as Viserion landed. He flapped his wings, awkwardly folding them under the sails. "As for you..." Daario wandered towards the creature. They'd come to an accord or sorts. He must be lost, he thought. Maybe he was only following in hope that Daario would lead him to Daenerys. Clever dragon. "You stay here. Guard my fleet." The dragon's only reply was to begin chewing on one of the masts, trying to free a tail bone from his teeth.


BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE

Daenerys approached Bear Island's cliff. The snow had been replaced with thick carpets of grass, shaded by an oppressive forest with ferns and vines wrapping themselves around the branches above, strangling their neighbours. Tiny wild flowers sprang in groups wherever the sunlight touched. Their delicate petals rustled as she passed.

At the very edge of the cliff was a sprawling Weirwood with fat roots tumbling over the side, feasting on the warmth inside the rock. Its crown of red leaves bled into the wind, littering the water below. A child knelt on the roots, scraping a shard of obsidian through the wood. Blood cried from the bark, running down the child's arm. It was no normal child. Its skin was green, freckled down the naked back where a spine protruded. Dark hair matted across its scalp, adorned with shells, beads and bone. The creature could have crawled from the folds of the earth.

There was a cracking sound on the air coming from the Weirwood. It sounded like it was screaming...

The child paused, sensing Daenerys. She moved closer, kneeling carefully on the roots of the tree beside the child of the forest. It was a wondrous creation, like looking upon the sunset. Daenerys smiled, beckoning the child toward her, affection mixed with memories of her own child, lost to the witch's words. The child shifted closer to the silver woman. Sap dripped from its elbow onto the Weirwood. Curiously, it tilted its head. Huge, blue eyes fractured the filtered light, replicating the colours of the wild flowers, smoke and the sea. The child's grip tightened around the blade. Those eyes turned black. The child lunged, dragonglass aimed at Daenerys' heart. She felt it drive into her flesh – ice spill where fire once raged. Her blood trickled into the Weirwood roots. When she looked up, she saw her face carved into the wood. Screaming.

Daenerys woke.

She pressed her hands to her chest, diving between layers of fur to find her heart warm and beating. Eventually she sat up, finding herself beneath a veil of Weirwood roots. The rabbits had been hung against the rock wall, creating ghastly shadows while their headless corpses dripped onto the stone. Daenerys was alone.


Jorah returned to forest, climbing a cascade of rocks to a mountain stream that gushed over the cusp of a cliff. Its water was sweet as he remembered so he knelt in the ice, dipping their flasks. His favourite rock remained balanced impossibly on the edge with a view of the ocean. It was odd. Here, in the middle of the woods, time had frozen. He could almost hear Dacey's voice mocking him on the wind. Jorah wondered where she was. Perhaps she was in the valley below, pacing the great hall beneath the timbers and dusty shields of their ancestors – guarding her people. She'd hate that. Dacey never wanted to rule – she wanted to fight. Of all the guilt in his heart, this burdened him the most.

The blow came from behind, knocking Jorah straight into the snow. He landed on his back, spread-eagled and dazed by the whispering pines above. The hell? He thought, before swiftly rolling out of the path of another strike.

On his knees, he saw the lumberjack brandish the handle of his axe, moving in for another go. He was a true Mormont, towering and strong with a stiff grey beard and heavy woollen tunic. Jorah reached forward at the last moment, grabbing the handle of the axe. The force dragged him through the snow. The Mormont man tried to shake him off but Jorah swung his leg around, knocking the other man down. Jorah ended up in possession of the axe, which he used to pry himself off form the snow.

"I mean you no harm," Jorah assured the man, rubbing the back of his head. "Dammit..." The dull thud of pain spread across his scalp.

The lumberjack went pale at Jorah's words. The old man shifted, returning to his feet where he proceeded to edge in on Jorah, grey eyes searching Jorah's. "I'll be fucking damned..." The man shook his head. Jorah was given no warning. The man was upon him, arms wrapped around Jorah's shoulders, smothering him with their considerable size. "Seven gods – you always were a cub. Never bloody grew!"

Jorah frowned as the lumberjack pulled back, though his hands kept a firm hold of Jorah's shoulders. "Dorin Fell!" Age had ravaged his features and a few good battles added scars to the score but he was still in there, his father's loyal man.

"'course it bloody is! Who the fuck else would it be out here? Might 'ave known. Nothin' touches that there ol' rock but you." His cheerful tone shifted suddenly, lowering in caution. "You can' be 'ere lad. You know that. Much as I love t' see you."

"I know," Jorah assured him. "One night and then we'll be gone."

Dorin was shaking his head in disbelief. "Truly, I thought you were long in the grave, lad." There was a sadness to his eyes. Only a ghost of Dorin remained. "I am 'appy to see you, my little king." He squeezed Jorah's shoulders again, checking that he was real. "Not travellin' alone then?"

"No I-" Jorah stopped when he saw his queen wandering through the snow behind Dorin, following his tracks. She was brazen, he'd give her that.

Dorin followed Jorah's eye, catching sight of the young beauty. She was tiny and fragile, like a snowflake. "Mormont, you amaze me. One after th' other, each more precious than the last. The gods smile on you."

Daenerys approached cautiously, noticing the axe in Jorah's hand.

"Dorin, may I present Luciya of Lys."

If Daenerys was surprised she didn't show it as she bowed her head respectfully to the old man.

Dorin eyed the woman carefully. He lashed out, shoving Jorah straight into the snow and fetched his axe back. "After all this time, you never learned how t' lie. That there is a Targaryen. Any fool with one good eye can see." He'd watched Jeor do the same, nursing baby dragons. What good would come of it? Murdered as babes or murdered now – their fates were cursed by the gods. "Don' tell me..." he held up his hand to stop Jorah as he went to explain. "I had hoped – for your father's sake, that you'd find somewhere quiet, live a life."

Jorah brushed snow off his cloak. "I was dead to my father," he replied bitterly.

"Wrong, as usual." Dorin prodded the side of Jorah's head with his finger, wondering if there was anything of worth in that hollow crown. All he could see was the babe he used to bring into the forest, walking under the pines to hush his cries. Poor thing. "He saved your life and spoke often of you. You were always his boy."

Jorah could not move. Dorin's words bound his muscles and stilled his heart. He felt his eyes grow hot. "I don't-"

"-listen..." Dorin finished for him. "Your father, bless his soul, died believin' the world of you. He might 'ave been a tough ol' bear but he knew how t' love. A man does not forget his child. Even to the last, he thought he'd see you again, wandering along The Wall. He said you'd 'ave honour then. Join 'im in the watch. Think that's why he waited in that damned place."

Tears freed themselves, vanishing over the curve of Jorah's cheek entirely without permission. He didn't know what to say.

"Soft as well," Dorin noted. "Too gentle to rule – terrible with coin."

Daenerys had to admit, the man had a point. Her knight would crumble at the first starving child. He understood the politics of empires well enough but there was too much goodness in him to wear the crown. Daenerys was different. She knew full well how to burn a city to the ground. Sometimes she imagined herself, walking through the ash of her fury. Would he still call her 'queen' then? Maybe he'd run a sword through her back.

"Ser," Daenerys began, but Dorin stopped her.

"There are no 'sers' in the North – 'cept your knight. He earned his with Southern blood."

"Dorin – we shall be gone in the morning. Can we persuade you to turn a blind eye to our encounter?"

"What encounter?" he smiled warmly. "Ran into a bear cub. Nothin' more." Dorin turned back to the young Mormont Lord. "Certainly I did not see our Lord Mormont..." This time Dorin knelt in the snow at Jorah's feet, dipping his head of white hair, the axe across his knees as though it were a sword.

"Up – I beg you," Jorah tugged him from the snow.

Daenerys bit her lip, watching the man bow to her knight. She knew he had been Lord of Bear Island long ago but had never lingered on the idea that men saw him as a king.

"I'm not your lord any more," Jorah insisted.

"No indeed," Dorin replied. "Our Lady is fierce. For honour's sake she'd 'ave your head."

"Dacey always was a stickler for – what is it?"

Dorin was shaking his head sadly. "You don't know then? How would you..." Dorin realised. Whispers of the North barely made it to the capital let alone across the Narrow Sea. "Dacey is not our lady."

"She went ranging then..." Jorah sighed. "Always threatening to. Never thought she'd actually go. My father probably let her through the -" Dorin was quiet, averting his eyes to the young Targaryen beside, searching for the words he must say.

Daenerys understood. She moved forward, taking Jorah gently by the arm. He did not see.

"Dacey Mormont took her place amongst us," Dorin replied slowly. "A lot has come to pass in the North since you left. The Starks are all bu' gone. Their war with the South tore our kingdom apart. Dacey answered the call and followed Robb Stark into battle. Many of our Northern lords and ladies, were butchered by the Freys and Lannisters. Ol' Walder Frey locked them in his hall under the sacred laws. They were unarmed when his men struck." Dorin watched as Jorah started to shake. "Dacey. Her mother too... We call it 'The Red Wedding'. We don' know where Alysane is, went missing after Stannis was defeated. Lyra and Jorelle were stolen by Wildlings in the night. Only Lyanna remains. She is our lady now. I'm sorry, boy... I thought you knew."

Jorah was expressionless as the news washed over him. He could not understand it. How could Dacey be gone, her mother and all her sisters... He just – he couldn't... "Lyanna..." he finally said. "I wish to see her."

"Even if I let you, which I wouldn', our lady is not here. She took our army South to win back Winterfell from the Boltons. We had a raven this morning. We have won. Jon Snow, remember Ned's quiet bastard? Sulky thing. Used to lurk at the back of feasts. He rules the North. Lyanna declared him king before the Northern houses in defiance of the crown."

"She was not long born when I left."

"Aye, she's a child. Let the gods fear her, old an' new." Dorin looked between the pair. They were exhausted from travelling and the poor dragon was shuddering in the cold. "I could take you in tonight. There's not much to it but I 'ave a fire, somewhere to sleep."

"I thank you, no..." Daenerys replied softly. "We are settled. I do hope we meet again."

"You will," Dorin assured her. "I promised his father I'd keep an eye on him. Jorah... there was another raven from the citadel. White... You know what tha' means."


Jorah barely noticed the cave. He laid against its unfriendly surface, crumpled up with the rugs and fur. A untouched cup of wine lay beside. The day and warn on. White clouds burleyed up from the North. Drogon's tail flicked out from the wooded area. His vision blurred as another tear fell. He should have stayed and taken the Black.

Daenerys lowered herself to the ground, watching her knight silently for a time. She'd not seen him like this – lost. "Do not leave me now, bear," she whispered. "Not when we're so close."

Another tear. The hushed crash of waves below the cave. A hollow moan from the wind against the cliff.

"When I am queen, your family will be avenged," she swore. "I'll find a way."

He rolled his head against the rock, looking at his queen. "You cannot," he replied, the first words he'd spoken in hours. "If we avenge every crime in the kingdom there will be no one left to rule. The blood will be endless until Westeros is an empire of ghosts. That's not the kind of ruler you want to be. I don't want to see you be that kind of ruler..." he added. "When does it end – if not with us?"

"I cannot kill the kingslayer either..."

"No. You cannot. He is the heir to an ancient, noble house."

"A place at my table, is that what I am to offer the man that murdered my father? There is no justice." Even as she said it, she heard her mother's screams. Defending her father was automatic but she had to wonder, would Jorah have done the same? She knew the answer to that. He'd have stormed into the room and cut the king's throat – thrown him out the castle window for the birds to pick through.

"Taking possession of the throne is not the test. Ruling is the test. I imagine what they will say of you, when we are both long gone."

"Am I a tyrant?" she asked.

"You are the best of those that came before you. Now please," he added softly, "I'd like to sit alone a while."