BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE
Clink. Clink. Clink.
An ornamental pin fell from the folds of Jorah's leather belts, bouncing over the uneven mess of cave before rolling toward the fire. Eager flames danced on the dome-shaped surface, unfurling expectantly before Daenerys snatched it away, feeling the silver warm against her flesh. She turned it over on her palm. Innumerable scratches scuffed the metal leaving it dull while inlaid at its heart was a construct of obsidian shaped into a bear print. The darkness was infinite, dragging Daenerys' gaze deeper. Whispers lurked between those layers of black glass. Memories. Fire. A pair of grey eyes. They shuffled together like stones beneath a fjord.
Jorah lamented, strewn against the cave's entrance where he was buffeted by the wind like some creature ripped out of an old song. How mournful he looked with his weathered features dusted in snow. Mormonts were a species of statue, bred from ice and tossed into the coals where they solidified. Forged on Bear Island he was a part of their mountains. Exile placed land between those wiles and his feet but Jorah's heart remained tucked into a forgotten corner of the North.
The day passed in silence except for a raucous of gulls swiping by. Even Drogon was content to sulk in his hiding place. Daenerys cupped Jorah's pin to her breast. Memories raced through her mind, tangled between truth and prophecy. She tried to fish her way through them until they distilled to a single truth...
She had held this pin before.
Clear as anything, she could picture herself sitting on the floor as a child, spinning the pin over and over, seeing how long she could keep it twirling before it inevitably tumbled between the joins of pale stone. Ser Willem Darry worked behind, stooped over his desk dispatching ravens.
A window slammed, angered by a storm. Clink. The pin fell still. One of the Darry's feathered creatures hopped over the floor toward her, shaking rain from its wings. It turned a black eye lustfully on the trinket, sharp beak parted as it itched to strike. Daenerys could see its feathers tense. Claws dig in. Three eyes. She hated those eyes... Her dreams were full of ravens. Black sentries, they guarded her nightmares.
Ser Darry was not a Mormont, of that Daenerys was sure, so how had he come across a bear token? At her ceaseless pleading he'd withdrawn it from the depths of his cloak where it was kept beside his heart. Not any Mormont pin either – this was the exact one that she held now as though it were mislaid by time. Did Ser Darry know the Mormonts? Were they friends from before the wars? How could this inconsequential thing make its way back across the Narrow Sea after Darry breathed his last?
No. That wasn't it.
She had never seen Ser Darry die, if indeed he was dead... Instead he had faded to nothing on the shores of a Lysene beach while she and her brother sailed with Illyrio. Daenerys was forbidden from telling that story. Even now she'd lie if asked.
"The most dangerous of secrets," Illyrio cautioned sternly, as the white-haired children cried. His plaited beard rustled in the sea wind while Daenerys clambered up the ship's rope to watch the black dot vanish on the beach. Ser Darry waited until the sail vanished over the water's curve.
Daenerys observed Jorah carefully. He guarded the bay with piercing eyes, picking over every wave crest and breath of foam. His dream of home lay shattered on the rocks. He could not let go, staring at the remains – disenchanted by the world.
Another pine cone tumbled into the fire. It filled with white smoke which billowed between the flames and washed across her face. So familiar... Daenerys' eyes closed.
Ser Darry's fires smelled of pine. He burned them in the Summer, when storms washed against their home knocking swollen lemons from the tree beside her window. She could hear them falling to the ground, rolling down the marble steps and plopping into the canal. The memories paled against her prophetic dreams. The man that raised her was a blur. Sometimes a shadow. Sometimes a scent. It was his voice that she remembered clearest, soft and deep, reciting stories from the edge of the world. Darry knew all the battles from the last thousand years. While her brother listened intently as Darry listed kings and all their knights, Daenerys waited for the tales of dragon riders, living and dying by the flame. They soared above the Westerosi kings, dragons fighting dragons. Later, when the storms died and the winds turned, Ser Darry pulled up a chair – nudged the fire and whispered of The North. Those dull eyes came alive as he spoke of the Haunted Forest full of walking bones – of a wall made of ice and winters so cold that entire villages froze during the night. Yes, Daenerys could see his pale blue eyes again. Those stories were writ in them...
It could not be. It must.
Clear as anything, those eyes were before her now. How had she forgotten? She saw them every day, mirrored in her mournful knight. Like father, like son.
"I found this," Daenerys approached, holding the pin out to Jorah.
He stirred then took it from her, brushing his thumb affectionately over the ruined thing. The edge of his lip curled with affection. "I did not expect this to survive Asshai," he admitted. "But here it is, defiant. Where did you find it?"
"Fell off your belt while I was preparing our things for travel. You've been carrying it for some time... Since we first met."
"Silly really," he admitted, tipping it back onto her outstretched hand. "This was a gift from my father before he left to swear his service to The Wall – for luck, he said. I was never one for the grace of the gods, old or new. Luck was all he could offer." He saw the curious eye of his queen.
"I was young," he explained, "married again and early into my lordship of Bear Island." Jorah instinctively touched his hip where a sword normally lay. He was missing his. That was a piece of steel he'd never see again. "The House sword sat at my side – I can still feel the bear pummel under my fist. You've never seen steel gleam like the Valyrian kind. It catches the sun and sucks the fire out of it. When it tears through flesh some of that fire is released. Men are already falling before the blade touches them. The pin is worthless, in everything but sentiment. It belonged to my grandmother. Even when I was a slave no one bothered to steal it. Are you alright?" The queen was oddly fixated on him, shifting closer on the furs until one of her hands came to rest against his chest. He breathed deeply, unsure of her intentions.
"Your father," she persisted, playing absently with his shirt. Masked in foreign clothes with a beard that had thickened in past weeks, left him looking nothing like a knight and she, Daenerys imagined, hardly a queen. "Did he ever spend time away from Bear Island?"
"Strange question," he noted. "From time to time he travelled South, a few months here and there. He only truly left before joining the Watch. One last trip, he'd called it. Must have been about four years. He wanted a better look at the world he planned to spend his life protecting. He bundled himself into one of the long boats and rowed off into the fog. I remember that night very clearly. The full moon was high and bright, all the stars were banished. There was an expanse of black and a sea of white fog. The fisherwomen wailed and tossed stones into the waves. He had been their true lord, not me."
"Where were you?"
"Watching from the cliff." He pointed above.
"I would have been very young at that time."
Jorah was not following. "I imagine so, yes. It was around the time when the realm fell apart. The Mad King was slain. Baratheons took the throne. You and your brother were smuggled to the East by – who did you say it was?"
"Ser Willem Darry."
"Ah, brother of the Kingsguard. One of you family's most loyal champions – left alive... My father met him once, long before the war and I attended a tournament where he fought. He was tall, strong and an elegant fighter, nothing like a bear. I think I wanted to be like him with all the ladies of the kingdom dangling favours over the rail. When he raised a blade to another man, it was an offer to dance. Are you crying, Khaleesi?"
"I remember," she whispered. "Not a vision, a memory... This pin belonged to the man that raised me."
"...what?"
"It can not have been Ser Darry, you see. He may well have smuggled me from Dragonstone as a babe but the man that settled us in Braavos was a bear with kind, grey eyes and stories of the North." The longer Daenerys stared into Mormont's eyes, the clearer the truth became. "What a strange folly fate has spun," she whispered, touching his face softly with her free hand. Her fingers traced his features as though she were seeing them for the first time. "Ice nursing fire. No sooner had he left, you arrived."
"Daenerys, I don't think-"
"Dorin must know the truth if he is, as you say, your father's best man. He can confirm my suspicions."
"Khaleesi, Bear Island fought against your father. The Starks called and we answered, riding for Robert Baratheon. He-" This time it was Jorah who paused. Something that had never made sense fell into place. A lie, hidden in plain sight. "When I first met you and..." even now it was difficult for him to say, so she helped.
"When you were in communication with Varys..."
He nodded. "The instruction to kill you came from Robert but in the letter Varys sent he noted Eddard Stark's objection. Particularly. I never thought of it until now. That is a strange detail to add to a command."
"Varys did not wish you to succeed but couldn't risk betraying Robert directly. He manipulated you into defying the order. Do you think he gambled that your allegiance to the North was stronger?"
"He need not have bothered, Your Grace."
"I know," she assured him. "But Varys did not. To him you were a rogue sellsword of noble birth. If the Starks were protecting Aerys' children, why not the Mormonts?" Daenerys shook her head eventually. "I don't know what it means. The North has never truly been part of the empire. What do they care for a pair of orphaned Targaryens?"
"It means," Jorah sat up a little, forgetting the bay, "that you may have more supporters in Westeros than you imagine. Varys has been keeping secrets. If he also has friends in Braavos where you were raised, I wager he'll call on them while meeting with the Iron Bank. He's been playing this game before you or I realised that we were in one."
"What is it?" Daenerys let her hand slip away as he shifted again, "Jorah..."
"Varys is not dragging your ambassadors to Braavos for the bank. We're invading Westeros regardless of what a few tiresome men say. He's there to waken old allegiances but he needed a valid reason to travel. We must speak to Dorin again."
"Jorah – does Varys work for or against my reign?"
"For, I think..." Doubt had sewn itself. "Wanting you to dismantle the empire and wanting you to rule it are two different things." He stressed. "At the moment, they are indiscernible from one another."
Daenerys laid her head against his chest. His arm slid around her shoulders, keeping her close. Silently, she pinned the trinket onto the inside of his shirt, protected and hidden from the world. She'd not have him lose it now.
"I'm sorry you lost your family," Daenerys whispered.
"S'alright," he slurred. "I always knew Dacey would die young," Jorah admitted. "It was written in every moment. There was too much fire in her. She'd have fought every man in Westeros to pass the time."
"And won."
There was a long pause where red rims darkened around the edge of his eyes. "She was slaughtered without a sword in her hand. That is no death for a warrior." Gods he hoped he never had to see her end. Never that. He wanted to think of her as the bear in the snow, knocking him to the ground with a stick.
He is thinking about his own end, Daenerys assumed. Even dying on the mountain in Asshai Jorah had clung to his blade, brandishing it in death. She swore that if he died, he'd be buried with a sword.
"I wish I could go back, step between the folds of time and tell her to run. Flee beyond the wall or stay on Bear Island if she must. The South killed her."
It was Daenerys who reached up, brushing a tear from the edge of his eye before it could fall into the tangle of his beard. "You're shaking..."
He frowned. "Am I?" Jorah lifted his hands. He was shaking. The markings on his skin darkened. "This isn't – I don't..." His queen's face blurred. The poison in his veins never died. It ebbed, rising and falling like the tide. "Asshai..."
"Jorah – calm down," Daenerys took him by wrists as he started to writhe against whatever raged in his blood. The script etched into his flesh burned at her touch, fighting the poison to keep him alive. "No – no, don't do that – Jorah, please..." Daenerys was pulled along as Jorah sagged to the side, falling against the stone where he started to convulse.
Jorah's hands were covered in blood. It ran into the snow, melting rivers around his feet. Stretching as far as he could see, the armies of men knelt before him. Behind, Jorah could hear the cracking of ice.
"There you are," Daenerys pressed a rag, covered in snow to his forehead. The cold brought him back. You would frighten me, Ser..."
His breath calmed as the writing faded into his skin. "Quaithe never told me what she did that night," he admitted. "The poison remains. Sometimes – I see things that aren't real. They are not like your dreams, Your Grace. These are – well, Quaithe could not say what they were. It is not known. Madness, perhaps. They come from a place beyond death."
Much of what he saw was impossible. Deserts turning to oceans – stars bleeding onto the world.
"Quaithe saved you – that is enough for me," Daenerys assured him.
"You, more than any alive, understand that blood magic has a price. I have not paid it."
"Maybe Quaithe did?" Daenerys lied. "Why are you smiling, Ser?"
Jorah wrapped his hand around her wrist, surprising her with his tenderness. "Were you worried? I think you were..."
She slapped him lightly, moving off him. "Last time I fuss over you, Ser. Seeing as you are clearly better, shall we surprise your old friend before the weather turns on us?"
His queen tugged him from the ground and he had no choice but to follow.
WINTERFELL RUINS – THE NORTH
"Bear's arse, what happened to you?" Tormund caught the little man wandering between sodden tents erected directly on the mud. The fabric strained against its ropes, blown about in the wind. Snow thickened. Ice crept over the ruins behind. Horses whinnied frantically as those beyond saving were slaughtered and served up as meat. Smoke from the pyres sank, suffocating the Winterfell ruins.
Littlefinger held his neck. Blood tumbled through his fingers, ruining his fur collar.
"A mere accident," Littlefinger snapped. Away from Sansa's presence, he felt the full bite of her blade. He was unaccustomed to battle's bitter edge. Pain lingered with the same sting as his plots. It burrowed through him, making his hands shake. "Do not trouble yourself." He was forced to stop when the Wildling king blocked his path. Bruises and swelling left Tormund's flesh an uneven nightmare. Word was he killed Lord Umber with his teeth. Littlefinger believed it. He briefly wondered if Lord Umber tasted as sour as he looked.
"If I don' trouble myself you'll like find your body on a pyre with those Bolton cunts." Then Tormund pointed to Littlefinger's neck. "No good. Necks..."
An hour later, Littlefinger squeezed the edge of a chair until his bones threatened to snap. Tormund stitched with surprising skill but little care for his patient's comfort, if that's what you could call it. Every now and then Littlefinger caught a glimpse of the bloodied thread, twisting in the flesh. The reminder of mortality irritated him. He preferred to think of himself as a god. One of those myths. His will was as iron as the throne yet a common blade threatened to make a corpse out of him.
"Do you have many accidents like this, little man?" Tormund asked, casually pulling the suture through the pale flesh.
Littlefinger grimaced. "It is something I aim to avoid."
He nodded. "It's the women you got to watch out for. Had one once – stuck me through the leg, right 'ere with a bit of pine tree." Littlefinger wasn't sure what to make of that confession so he said nothing. Tormund continued. "That Stark bitch," it was a compliment in his eyes, "she's dangerous. I'd keep my end out if I were you. Saw which tent you left, didn't I..." He replied, to the other man's questioning look. "Does the white wolf know?"
"There is nothing to know."
"Snow finds out might not go so well for you." For a simple man, the Wildling saw clearer than most.
"He requires my army to hold the North, though you may have a point." He conceded. "Jon Stark has a tendency to allow emotion to override sense." Tormund was frowning. "He rushes in without thinking."
"Aye he does. Thought he could take the whole army, standing there. Balls the size of boulders."
Silence ebbed between them while Tormund tied off the final stitch. "Are you going to share this with Snow?" He asked carefully, unable to read the Wildling's face.
"I quite fancy one of them fucking castles..." he replied casually, sitting back with a bladder of truly primal alcohol. It glugged down, burning a passage to his gut. The stench lifting off it was enough to make a rat gag.
"You believe I can secure you a castle..."
"Clever man – and land. None of that rocky shit. Soft and black."
Seven hells. This is exactly what he didn't need. "No women?" The other man started laughing, nearly choking on his drink.
"Do as they please, don't they? No use bartering for them. Especially not this one."
Clearly he had one in mind but Littlefinger's stomach turned at the thought. Maybe it was the wine. "All right. A castle and lands. You are owed them anyway."
"If you like, you can say I did that," he pointed to the wound. "Accident."
BRAAVOS – ESSOS
"Here we go..."
Varys tilted his bald crown back as their ship passed under the shadow of the Braavosi titan. The wonder loomed above the harbour entrance like a god – all that was left of a mountain that blocked the lagoon from the Shivering Sea. Up close he could see rows of black slots layered beneath its stone tunic where barrels of oil once dropped onto the decks of great Valyrian warships, setting them alight with a roar of terrified screams. They burned for hours, floating across the harbour before sinking into the deep lagoon where they remain below the surface creating a reef. Varys did not linger on that thought in case a pair of lifeless eyes twisted through their wreck.
Today the stone giant was quiet. The harbour master rang his bell and directed them into a series of canals crowded with merchant craft. With a fair wind, white sails filled the air and trade nested in the open hulls of innumerable boats. Buskers blighted curves of stone that bridged the islands together. Braavosi schooled behind them with their distinctive ochre robes making them look like a crowded pond of Koi in a Dornish garden.
"This is all very civilised," Tyrion observed, standing beside the Spider as they took in the view.
There were hundreds of islands clustered disorderedly. Those in the middle of the lagoon had buildings made exclusively of rock mined over three-hundred years from the ranges on the mainland. Tyrion could see nasty white scars running down several mountain flanks. The only exception was the famous House of Black and White with its mismatched doors, perched on a lonely rise of rock. A strange air sank around that building, stilling the water and banishing seagulls from the steps. Even the sunlight died on its surface.
"Ah yes, the paradise of freed men," Varys replied, with an overtone of ire. He seemed displeased by the city.
"Careful, old friend."
"Of what? Freedom comes at a price, like everything else. Can you guess what it was?"
Tyrion never answered. As soon as they pulled away from the harbour's mouth the water turned sour. All manner of unpleasant thing bumped against their hull as they headed toward the inner docks. Their boat sat heavy in the water, burdened under the weight of a sleeping dragon whose restless tail slid across the deck, scraping long scars into the wood. Their crew adjusted the sails to cover it.
"The Iron Bank has offered us a private mooring in the Purple Harbour," Varys said, helping direct the captain through the nightmare of water ways. The harbour was literally purple where the trapped water heated up in the sun, giving rise to a type of shallow weed. "We will meet with the council of bankers first and then retire for their lengthy deliberation. Do I have your assurance that the dragon will stay where it is for now?"
Tyrion eyed him blackly. "What do you want me to do... He's a dragon. There's nothing I can do if he fancies a snack."
Varys canted over the side of the ship, shouting Braavosi at canal boats laden with merchants attempting to latch onto their ropes and clamber aboard to flog useless shit and half-rotten fruit. Tyrion shifted out of the way as his livid compatriot dismissed his usual graces, hurling dire insults at the boisterous men below. It went on like this until they were moored. Exhausted, Varys returned to the deck, dabbing his brow.
"As I was saying," Varys continued, "the dragon must remain hidden until the bankers have made their decision. We have one card to play. If it flaps in and all fire and fang we might find ourselves in a difficult position."
The Iron Bank had set itself above the rest of the city with its colonnade drawn out like vertebra on a dragon. From both flanks, the columns cascaded down unnecessary marble steps until the final pair rested with their bases submerged into the water. It was an odd building in both proportion and soul. Tyrion could feel the stone mock his short legs which struggled on the steps. Hateful place. There was a loathing seeping from the stone.
"Your father swore never to set foot on these steps again," Varys made conversation, as they climbed. "He'd rather bed a Stark than climb these steps."
"I imagine that's because he owed a great deal of money."
"Lord Petyr Baelish was a curious choice for Master of Coin. Oh he is very sharp with money," Varys assured Tyrion, "but not in a way that benefits others. Somewhere, tucked away, he's lined a nest with gold."
They were kept waiting in a cavernous hall for many hours with only an uninspired fountain dribbling away in the corner to break the monotone. Opulent and empty. Tyrion wondered if that was a reflection of the bankers' souls.
Eventually they were seated in the reception room on a series of precarious wooden stools opposing the sprawl of granite bench. Behind were chairs equal to thrones basking in the sunlight streaming through great archways in the wall. Tyrion averted his gaze to Varys who was busy folding his layers of silk so that it didn't drag on the floor as he lowered himself. Missandei carefully took her place. Her chair shifted loudly on mismatched legs. Neither of them said anything but their minds were alike.
Tyrion was about to climb onto his perch when the iron door swung open, releasing a curtain of incense. The bankers shuffled silently on the stone, fanning out along the bench. They placed their palms on the stone and bowed. Bald heads caught the light before the men took their thrones. The outcome was not quite what the bankers had intended. Overburdened by their display of wealth, they appeared unusually small. Tyrion was underwhelmed. They were just men. Unremarkable men...
The silence between the two parties persisted until Varys leaned forward. "Greetings. If I may introduce-"
"We know exactly who you are and why you are here, Varys, or we would not have granted you passage." Tycho Nestoris, a slender man with elongated features picked up a quill and scratched a note on his parchment. The ink was thick, drowning the page. "Your numerous ravens were quite sufficient."
Varys bowed his head respectfully but Tyrion could feel his prickle of embarrassment.
"And what a surprise," Tycho continued, his attention wandering to the dwarf, "Tywin's spare heir. Your sister is looking for you." The banker let that linger between them. "Too bad she and the Crown have a differing opinion on outstanding debt. We hold a preference for the literal translation of a deadline. This is why you are here."
"The Braavosi have no army of note," Varys pointed out tactfully, "and thus, no way of collecting these significant debts without incurring costs that threaten your bottom line. We have an army and a new queen."
"So we hear. Where is this queen?" Tycho theatrically looked around the room. "The last usurper of the Iron Throne presented himself to our council as a sign of respect. Your queen has vanished."
"We were sent in advance," Tyrion cleared his throat, "to discuss the conquest of Westeros and resolution of the realm's debts in exchange for temporary support of her claim."
"You do not want money?"
"We have money," Varys shrugged. "We are after something more valuable and are prepared to buy it at a fair price. Is the Lannister debt sufficient price for a throne?"
"Legitimacy..." Tycho mulled the word over, as if it tangled in the fingers he wriggled in the air. "Forgive our surprise. Targaryens are not in the habit of asking for what they can take."
A smirk drew out the edges of Varys' pale lips. "It is a new world."
Outside they scattered, sitting on the vulgar marble steps. Tyrion found a crack in one of them and picked restlessly at it, doing what little damage he could manage.
"That was awful," Missandei said, batting Tyrion's hand away from the steps. Destroying their building would not help their cause.
"I actually thought it went quite well," Varys replied, earning him matching looks of choler from his companions. "That is how things are done with the bankers of Braavos. They like to ensure you know your place – namely somewhere far beneath them. Even rulers have to bend the knee to their gold."
"If they ask Daenerys to 'bend the knee' they'll find out how easily gold melts." Tyrion muttered quietly.
"Which is why we are here and she is not." Varys turned away in a flourish of silk.
Tyrion reached forward, catching folds of it in his hand. "Where are you off to then?"
Varys freed himself from the dwarf. "Friends."
"You don't have any friends..."
"Everyone has friends," Varys assured him. "Even spiders." He dipped his head respectfully and peeled away, skimming down the marble steps as though he hovered on a cushion of air.
"Something troubles you..." Missandei observed.
Tyrion's curious gaze was intense. "'Troubles' is the wrong word. I'm curious, more than anything."
She followed his eye-line. "I could follow him," Missandei offered. "It is something my master used to command of me. He won't know I'm there."
"Alright," Tyrion agreed. "But be careful."
Missandei smirked. "Of what? Bankers?"
Tyrion returned her smile, finding it on his lips quite some time after Missandei slipped through the crowds out of sight. He checked the skies. It was foolish to imagine a dragon unfurling its wings onto the wind. "Come on..." Tyrion whispered to the expanse of blue.
The narrow alleys and stone bridges pressed the city's inhabitants together making it easy for Missandei to remain a few steps behind, unseen. Varys moved swiftly, ducking from the markets into the outskirts of the city which lingered within reach of the mainland. Potted trees appeared in lavish ceramic pots, flourishing against the stone in ever-increasing explosions of green. Vines ate at the walls, draping sprays of pink flowers over bleached stone. Patches of foliage began to shrivel at the unseasonally cold weather, dying in the light while the snowline on the ranges crept toward the valley.
Varys stopped outside a terrace. A lemon tree, tortured by age, sprawled uncontrollably over one window bearing heavy fruit. He checked the crowds, scanning their faces. Missandei turned, sinking into a stall before he saw her.
The terrace had a bright red door, chipped and worn with an enormous bronze handle at its centre. It was ornate – a sun with a spear piercing its heart. Varys knocked. A few minutes later he disappeared inside for nearly an hour. He left empty handed, ducking into the streets.
Missandei gasped as a merchant ran aground on her. They collapsed into each other, hitting the cobblestone before rolling toward a narrow line of rock separating the pathway from the water. Missandei smelled its filth mix with the hot breath of the man crushing her. By the time she was free Varys had boarded a narrow canal boat and pushed off, headed across the busy water toward the only possible destination. The foreboding residence with two doors; one black and one white.
"Is it enough?" Varys laid the Valyrian sword on the table, delicately folding back its silk coverings to reveal the blade. He averted his eyes – heartbroken by the thought of what he was about to do.
Jaqen H'ghar clasped his hands behind his back. The long, plain robes of the Faceless Men dragged across the floor. Above loomed a Weirwood face, butchered and mounted on the wall like a trophy. It was caught in a constant howl of pain with bleeding eyes dripping sap. There was a stain on the ground beneath while the rest of its body had been used to make one of the front doors.
"Enough for what is asked," Jaqen H'ghar replied. His voice dragged like his robes, monotonous and lingering – catching occasionally. "Is a man sure there is not a different name he wishes to whisper to the Many Faced God? Perhaps a king?"
Varys was killing a king. "No. A man is satisfied," he mimicked their language perfectly. "Make sure it is done in good time."
Jaqen H'ghar agreed, folding the sword in its silks. Every roll made a solid thunk against the stone. The sound followed Varys as he crossed the room, echoing his steps. He reached out to brush his palm over one of the lonely columns. It was abrasive, devoid of affection.
A piece of his soul remained in The House of Black and White. He loved that sword but its loss was necessary. The world was littered with men who weren't willing to play the game of thrones with risk. Varys understood. He knew how to win.
Missandei hid against the cold stone, pressed flush against one of the columns as she listened to Varys drag open the door. Light streamed in as the door twisted on its hinge. Metallic screams joined the rustle of flame before it slammed, trapping her inside.
She peeled herself off the column and crept around its enormous body, silently edging toward a hidden spot where she might slip away toward the door. Glancing over her shoulder, she was confronted by a chamber of stone pillars, stacked like the sentries in her master's house.
Missandei startled.
A man stood before her. He'd moved like smoke, appearing from nowhere.
"A woman has lost her way," Jaqen H'ghar touched the marble column, placing his hand near hers.
Varys returned to the Iron Bank where he found Tyrion Lannister sprawled over the steps, baking in what little warmth he could find in the waning sun.
"You look like one of the Old Gods awaiting a feast."
"Gods are usually taller."
"A cherub, then..." Varys amended. "Where is Missandei?"
"Shopping," Tyrion replied casually. "You were gone so long she decided to leave me at the mercy of our silent new friends."
Varys did not challenge him on the point. "They will never be our friends," Varys cautioned the lion. "Even if the Iron Bank genuinely support Daenerys' claim to the iron throne and sway some of the noble houses to our side, they value coin above all else. Friend today and foe tomorrow. At least their betrayal is predictable. Bankers are logical creatures. It makes them low risk partners."
"And tiresome dinner guests. Will they support us?"
"Only if our queen storms through that door. The Iron Bank has never backed a conqueror without seeing their face. As for money – we don't have any of that either. Not unless we steal it. To do that we'll have to kill a lot of rich men. Or rob a bank."
They both eyed the bank behind them with amusement. Truthfully the wealth of Braavos was hidden deep in the mountains. No one knew exactly where.
Their ship wasn't far away. Every now and then it twitched awkwardly. "The dragon's been stirring. I asked the crew to feed him another barrel of fish while you were out but soon he'll want to get up and stretch his wings."
"The Braavosi have mixed feelings about dragons," Varys sat beside Tyrion. "Some are attracted to their power and certainty, the rest see them as symbols of their ancient oppressors. There are many in Braavos that would try and kill our dragon if they knew it was here."
"You'll forgive me for laying my gold with the dragon..." Tyrion has survived at least three quarters of a day without wine and his basic organs were protesting the withdrawal. If he didn't start drinking soon it was entirely possible that he'd go on a mad rampage through the city and kill, well, at least three Braavosi. His frustration manifested as a sheen of sweat.
"If the doors open and Missandei is not here, we'll gave to resume our meeting without her."
"I know," Tyrion assured him.
BEAR ISLAND – BAY OF ICE
"Are you certain this is the way?" Daenerys asked, as they prowled through the snow. The sun has started to fall into its crib and temperature plummeted with it, kicking up a nasty howl that drove loose snow from the ground into their faces. She felt the ice lacerate her with a thousand tiny scratches.
"You never forget how to find your home," Jorah promised. He helped pull his queen out of the snow before continuing. She was a Southerner, not built for this kind of terrain but she carried on bravely. Dorin's cabin wasn't far, tucked into the tree line. "Old man built it himself," Jorah said, as they approached. "Him and fifty bloody men," he added with a grin. "Don't ask him the story or he'll be telling it all night. Here."
Smoke shuffled through the pines, sinking with the cold. Nestled against a rise of rock was a tiny log cabin. A pile of firewood was stacked out the front, capped with Dorin's axe. Jorah side-eyed the weapon as they passed.
The door opened before they reached it.
"Heard you comin' half a mile back," the old bear waved them in. "The forest is quiet," he added, closing the door behind them to keep out the cold. "I know when a dear passes my door. So did he, once..." He pointed at Jorah. "Do you remember, boy?"
"Yes... I remember." Jorah replied patiently. "It was a game," he explained to Daenerys. "I had to name as many creatures as I could nearby. It's common here – teaches you to hunt and survive. You never forget it."
"Ser Jorah is always the first to hear a Dothraki hoard approach on the sand and you'll find no finer tracker."
"He might have impressed the East but he'd starve beyond The Wall." Dorin was making them tea, setting down what little he had onto a table. "Did you really think that you could keep the creature here and no one would notice?"
"Well, I was rather hoping," Jorah admitted. "You're the only man crazy enough to live this close to the cliff."
"S'quiet. Tea?" He passed the cups across to his guests. "You should know it was out huntin' as soon as you turned your back. Intelligent creature – I don' think it wanted you to see. Thought I was dreamin' – watching a dragon play in the snow..."
"Dorin – have you told anyone what you saw?"
"Think I'm mad as is," Dorin replied. "Last thing I want is some young cub considering himself a dragon hunter. Plenty of them growin' up without parents to talk sense into them. That's all that's left here. Broken relics and children." The old bear caught the silver woman's eye. "The people pray for peace."
"Is that what my father prayed for?" Jorah interrupted. He had a cup of tea held to his lips. The steam lifted, melting the last flecks of snow from his beard. "Is that what he worked for when he crossed the Narrow Sea?" Jorah knew he was right when Dorin sighed and set his cup down. It was as if all the lies of his life exhaled, mixing with the smoke. The old man pulled up a chair beside the fire and nodded.
"Aye, your father worked for it."
There were no windows in the cabin. The walls were made from un-split pine logs nailed together and covered with furs. Above the fire was a single chimney allowing most of the scented smoke to drift into the wilderness of Bear Island. Somewhere, far beyond, Daenerys could hear the crash of the bay. Her gaze drifted to Jorah. He was tense, sipping his tea while keeping his body rigid in the chair. His ice sword was strapped in the leathers around his waist, concealed. As he shifted, Daenerys caught a glimpse of its blade near the hem of his cloak.
"His reasons were his own," Dorin added, before Jorah could ask his next question. "Quiet man, your father. Didn' like to talk much. I did what he asked, you understand. As to why he did these things... I could not say." Dorin's vision was not what it had been as a young man. Still, he could see perfectly plain the future laid out for the Targaryen queen. If peace was coming, it was a long way off. There was an ocean of blood between her and the throne. "All I know is he spoke of you," Dorin nodded at Daernerys. "Only once. I walked him to The Wall myself. He should be here to see you grown."
"When I take the throne," Daenerys assured him, "I shall usher in the peace he prayed for."
"Begging your pardon, Your Grace," Dorin replied, "that is not yours to give."
Dorin rose, knocking the chair over. He crossed to the door and pressed his ear to the slight gap where a breath of the outside world was permitted entry. Jorah stood as well, moving cautiously to the door. Something was wrong.
"Is it the dragon?" Jorah asked, his voice cut to a whisper.
Dorin shook his head. "Worse. You must take your queen," he pushed off the door, ran to the far wall and pried his sword from its dusty holds. He blew a layer of time off the blade and discarded the casing. "Leave and don' look back!"
Jorah caught up to the old man, blocking his way. "Dorin – what is wrong?"
"Take your queen," Dorin repeated, pushing Jorah so sharply the younger man nearly ended up on the floor. "And go!"
Dorin stormed out of the cabin armed with his sword. As he passed the firewood he reached out, collecting the axe along the way without losing a step. With a weapon in each hand, Dorin stalked into the woods then vanished into the shadows and snow.
