PORT MORAQ GREAT MORAQ – THE JADE SEA
It was an ancient catastrophe picked apart by the wind. The island of Great Moraq and the city gouged out of from the rock were equally strangled by the encroaching jungle. Alive, it suffocated every attempt at civilisation before ending with its roots in the salt water. A ferocious haze of winged mites descended with the light, thickening until their bodies smoked in the oil lamps, swinging from branches, strung low over the streets like sad stars. In the day, when the forest cats slept high in the bowers of engorged water-trees, sudden bursts of wind reared out from the Cinnamon Straits andkicked loose a folly of orange petals. They tumbled down the stone avenues in a rain of burnt blood.
Quaithe walked amongst them – felt them brush against her golden mask and catch in the folds of her robes. The jungle covered Great Moraq's main street with a bower, allowing only occasional fragments of light to touch the uneven cobblestones. It sloped gently, tangling through the haphazard buildings whose brush doors were shut. Floral braids jostled over them. Chickens stalked the abandoned street. Not a soul braved the sight of the pirate fleet amassing in the harbour. Quaithe kept her eyes on the dragon. It perched at the bow of the lead ship, glistening in the sun.
"Foolish girl!" A man grabbed her arm, dragging her from the road. Quaithe was thrown behind a crude statue of a panther reclined among a garden of ferns.
"Wreab!" She hissed angrily. He'd been there for some time, hiding like the rest of Moraq. "What are you doing?"
"What am I doing?" he replied in admonishment. "What are you doing – tryin' to get yourself killed? Those are pirates in th' harbour."
"You're a pirate..." Quaithe pointed out dryly.
"A trader," he corrected. "This different. I seen their like before. Nasty sort. Worst in the seas. Can pick 'em out by the black plank in the side of them ships."
"I came to take you back to your ship, Wreab. They'll be after all that gold you've buried in the forest."
"I know. I'd be bloody back there already if it weren' for my men. Stuck in the tavern at the end o' the road." Wreab looked to the water and the fleet of ships beyond the gates. He'd noticed the beast perched on deck. "Is that why you're here?" he asked, nodding at the dragon. "Same as the last. Another one of those Targaryen monsters?"
"Perhaps..." she replied. "There were three of them. I've seen only one adult dragon and it was black."
"It ain' that one then." Wreab rested against the statue. The jungle heat made him shine with sweat which only served to attract a constant arsenal of insects to his skin. Some of them got stuck there, twitching their segmented legs while their wings were trapped in his sweat. "Whatever you're thinking, the answer is no..." he said, to the silent thoughts of his companion. "All of your ideas are bad," Wreab continued. "Ain't one that didn't land me in trouble. Where are you going?"
The pirates had brought half a dozen craft into the harbour while the rest lingered outside the gates. These vessels were light in the water with empty hulls and a skeleton crew. They lowered their sails, coasting in before tossing ropes at the harbour crews who warily fastened them to the wharf. Their red flag of trade fought the wind, rippling against the perfect sapphire sky.
"That must be the new king," Wreab whispered.
"New?" Quaithe asked, joining him at their new hide closer to the water. It smelled of fish.
"Aye, new. Last I heard they was run by a pirate queen. Whoever that is – ain' no lass. Looks like a pale eel got stuck on one of their hooks."
Quaithe had to agree, as the slender man stepped off the ship. Her eyes were drawn to his sword, strapped around his waist. It was so heavy it threatened to tear not only his leather belt but the pants as well. His ribs showed, jutting out from a muscular figure. "They're starving," she said.
"So they've come for food instead of gold."
"He's not much of a pirate, is he?"
Wreab wasn't so sure. "If life on the seas as taught me anything, it is not to judge a ship by its flag."
"I need to know who he is."
"You're going t' get us both killed. He probably stole that dragon."
"You can't steal a dragon," Quaithe replied firmly. "They're not sheep. The dragon is following him for a reason and if it truly is one of Daenerys' dragons, then this pirate king may very well help us. You said it yourself, you're short on coin with the demise of Yin."
Wreab was unconvinced but sorceresses were impossible to persuade.
He looked ridiculous, strutting along the wharf toward the small envoy lined up in the shade. Shirtless, there was evidence of a recent battle staining the strips of material wound around his waist. His once pale skin had been burned a dozen times and was now dried, pealing along nasty cracks as if he were a serpent shedding a face.
"I thought he'd be bigger," Wreab commented, even closer. They'd slipped through the undergrowth all the way to the edge of the wharf.
"Ironic."
"Why?"
Quaithe lofted her eyebrow at her moderately sized companion but offered no further explanation. "You are right – he isn't the picture of a pirate king."
"Nothing is right with the world at the moment. No bloody fish in the sea either."
The pirate king and representatives of Great Moraq were conversing in High Valyrian. He was fluent but his words were rounded with a Tyroshi hollow on the vowels and something iron in the crests.
"Where are your men?" Quaithe asked. Wreab nodded to the tavern perched directly over the docks. Constructed from jungle wood, its left side leaned awkwardly. "Damn..." she added, as the convoy departed the docks and headed into the tavern to continue their business. "You better hope your trade partners keep a low profile."
"You're not followin' them..."
She was. Quaithe was unusual enough in appearance to resemble one of the locals. They adorned themselves in all manner of coloured cloth to keep the insects at bay and drowned whatever was left in oil and spice. She slid into the tavern, carrying a tray of drinks. The pirates and masters of Port Moraq were ringed by prostitutes and musicians while they settled their arrangement. Very odd, Quaithe thought. Pirates rarely traded. If he were truly a feared pirate king he'd have sacked the harbour, stuck the master's head on a pole and raped his way from street to street until his ships were full. The dragon queen had waged a personal vendetta against slavery in the East. If this pirate was one of her allies, perhaps she had forbidden it.
"You there... You." One of the men from the pirate's table waved Quaithe over, commanding her to pour drinks.
Her mask of gold rustled as she bent over the pirate king's shoulder and when she was close enough to whisper so that only he could hear, she said, "I serve your queen." The pirate said nothing as he waved her off but for the remainder of the negotiations his eyes drifted to the woman with the mask.
"That one, too..." he finally said, pointing at Quaithe.
The master of Port Moraq followed his eye and shrugged. "As you like." The woman was nothing to him. A pair of his men took Quaithe roughly by the arms. She offered no protest and fixed her dark eyes on Wreab, who stewed in the corner of the room under the pretence of a local.
It was only when they were below deck on the pirate king's ship that he finally addressed her directly.
"Which queen would that be? There are so many these days, it is difficult to keep track."
Quaithe remained in the centre of the room, allowing the pirate to stalk curiously around her. He was still carrying the sword and kept one hand on its hilt at all times. New... He was afraid it might vanish. "Queen Daenerys Targaryen," she replied. "Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Queen of Meereen, the Andals, Rhoynar and of the Fist Men. Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm. I served her in Asshai and Qarth."
Her words moved the pirate. "Daenerys was in Asshai?" he asked urgently.
"She was," Quaithe confirmed. "With the Mormont knight."
"I thought – perhaps – that she might be dead." His facade fell away. Suddenly he looked nothing like a pirate king and every inch the sellsword muddling his way through life at the edge of the world. "The last time I saw the queen was in the Great Grass Sea on the outskirts of Meereen. She'd been taken prisoner by a rival khalasar. Jorah Mormont and I went in search of her but it all went a little... wrong. I was captured and taken into slavery. The last time I laid eyes on the queen she had a knife to her throat. That bloody bear must have come through in the end."
"Then you are one of her soldiers?"
"Sellsword. I led the Seven Sons." He bowed. "Daario Naharis, the queen's paramour. We sail toward Westeros to fight her war."
"You sail under her name, unsure if she is alive?"
"We sail for her cause."
"And the dragon?"
"Viserion? He follows. The dragon was my hope. I like to think that he trails me to find his mother. I have answered your questions, now answer mine. Who are you?"
She told him as much of the truth as he needed but stopped short of divulging her plans. He seemed satisfied, having heard Daenerys' stories about an oracle that came to her both in a dream and life. They were disturbed by a scream on deck and the sound of something heavy falling to the wood. A tiny body lay on the ground, surrounded by three of the pirate guards. One of their sabres was bloody.
Quaithe sank silently to the deck, kneeling in a pool of blood. Wreab rolled over, in the throws of death. He seemed stunned by the torrent of sticky liquid running over his hands, emanating from a gaping tear in his stomach. "I told you to wait. I told you to wait..." she kept repeating, feeling a sudden clench at her heart as his hands fisted in her clothes. Wreab held her as if she were life itself.
"Had to make sure you were okay, didn' I, princess?" he replied, a weak smile struggling over his mouth. He was the only living soul brave enough to call her 'princess'. Then he was gone with a final lurch of pain. His eyes rolled back. Heavy lids closed. Wreab tumbled out of her arms and lay dead.
When they sailed out of Port Moraq, heavy ships marking a fresh waterline, it was to the sound of the dead man's song. Daario had the pirates sing as a form of contrition. Orange flowers were laid on the water and somewhere underneath the waves his corpse was weighed down with rocks so the creatures of the sea could feed. That was their way. The way of the sea.
Ally or not, Quaithe did not mention Wreab's men anchored in the other bay for fear they would be attacked. They were left, floating in the shade of the mountain for a captain who had sunk beneath the waves.
"He's large," Quaithe eyed the golden dragon, who dived through the air once the fleet was at speed. "Not as large as the other that I saw the queen riding."
"Riding?" Daario was astonished. "Drogon was the largest. The other two spent some time locked beneath the great pyramid at Meereen. In the short time he's been with me, Viserion has grown. Why do you look at my sword?"
Quaithe's eyes had lingered again. "Valyrian steel," she replied. "Though I think you know that. There are not many in the world and they all have names. Brightroar..." Quaithe leaned forward as the sea spray dripped from her mask. "The Lannister sword. I'd be careful who you let see that or you'll be a head shorter than my old friend resting under the waves."
Daario felt her owed the odd woman a debt for the death of her man. Perhaps that was why he'd agreed to take her with him. "Remember what I said."
"I know," she stopped him. "This is far from the first time I've sailed with a pirate. Magic is bad luck on the water, or so the old songs go."
"You'll stay here, in my cabins."
"Your oriental whore."
"In name only."
Obviously, Quaithe thought to herself. Once she'd been beautiful enough to tempt any man from his honour. Her power lay in visions now, not the southern regions of men's hearts.
"If Daenerys is alive we'll find her," Daario added, turning his back on the water.
Quaithe watched him silently for many hours after that. She was beginning to think there might be some truth in Wreab's words. Daario's story regarding his service to the queen sounded well enough but there were subtleties in the way the sellsword rode the swell – the way he gripped the rigging and danced along the edges of the ship. He was born on the sea. His soul was in the spray. A pirate, of that Quaithe was certain.
THE IRON BANK BRAAVOS – ESSOS
Jorah Mormont had maintained his stoic silence for a good five minutes. Tyrion remained expectant, hopeful even, if not still a little drunk as he lingered beside the young girl they'd brought below deck.
"It's -"
"I know who it is," Jorah caught Tyrion short. The North knew their own. "You are a long way from home, Lady Stark," he addressed the girl directly.
Arya had not paid much attention to her lessons but the silver bear pin on the knight's tunic picked him out as a Mormont, loyal to her house. "Do I know you, ser?" she asked, fighting against a strange feeling that had not crossed her for many years. Hope.
"Aye, you do," he nodded, softening slightly. "I visited Winterfell when you were not long born. There were blue ribbons tied from every window." Mormont's eye line lowered to Tyrion. His family removed Ned Stark's head and set it on a spike. He wondered if the young girl understood who stood beside her. "Could we have a moment?"
Tyrion's face fell. "Why?" The glare in response was enough. "Fine – fine..." Tyrion held up his hands, stumbled into a table and then left. Missandei lingered in a moment of conflict before following him out.
Jorah dragged a chair across the floor with an ungodly screech. He lowered himself into it so that they were the same height. Definitely a Stark. There was no denying the eyes, bitter with revenge. Those that saw a defenceless child were blind. This little one was a wolf.
"I like your sword," he started. Instantly protective, the girl covered its hilt with her palm. "Does it have a name?"
"Needle."
"A fine name for a fine sword," he assured her, Jorah's voice softer than usual. "You hold onto it," Jorah added. "Might need it, where we're headed."
"Back to Westeros...?" Arya sought confirmation.
"Is that where you're trying to go?"
"Home." There was more honesty in her reply than Arya had meant.
"Home is a dangerous place." He didn't know how to broach the subject. The North was complicated and her surviving siblings were in more danger than they'd ever been in.
"The world is a dangerous place for little girls," she replied, wiser than her years. "I've been all over. I poured wine for Twyin Lannister, saw my brother's body sewn onto his wolf. I had a hound for a keeper and murderers as company." Her focus shifted to a lantern burning on the table beside them. The Red Witch, too. "Will you take me home, ser?"
Jorah had more bravery unarmed before a massacre than in front of a begging child. This wolf pup at his feet awakened some of the honour in him. "I'll try," he promised. "First we must win a great battle. Then, on my word, I'll take you to your family in Winterfell." Jorah extended his arm. Arya took hold of it, gripping it as men of the North when a pledge was made. She was bloody strong. "Do you know the small man who was in here before?"
Arya nodded. "Tyrion Lannister." She was no fool.
"He serves our queen – your queen now."
"The North knows no king but the king in the North and his name is Stark." Jorah lurched forward, placing his hand over her mouth. He shook his head firmly. It was softer than the smack in the face Arya was accustomed to. Arya had been mistaken. Those were not the words this Mormont wanted to hear. When his hand lowered, Arya asked, "Who is the queen?"
Jorah emerged from the cabin carrying the Stark girl in one arm. Tyrion and Missandei waited in the hall, pressed up against the ship's narrow innards. "This is Lady Stark," Jorah announced to them and any other crew nearby, "daughter of Eddard Stark – a good and honourable man of the North. She will sail with us as our guest." Then he passed her into the care of Missandei. "Tyrion, a word."
Once alone, Tyrion started laughing at the bear. "She's a child," he insisted, his mop of golden hair longer than usual.
"She's a Stark," Jorah assured him, "and that makes all the difference."
"Let her try, if she likes."
"This is not a joke, Lannister," Jorah pushed him back against the wall with one of his paws. "I saw something flicker across her eyes when she said your name."
"She could have already done it – there was amble opportunity before you wandered aboard."
"Wolves hunt."
On that unsettling note, Jorah left the imp to his thoughts.
Arya took to the rigging, scaling it all the way to one of the look outs. Braavos lay open on the water. The House of Black and White loomed to her left, lonely and pale like a dragon skull. She thought of Jaqen H'ghar and the Faceless Men. They had washed over the world in a silent wave, unseen, pulling the strings of empires. She was another, on a boat to Westeros – or was she Arya Stark? She gripped the rigging more tightly. "I am no one," she breathed with the wind, despite Needle at her hip and thoughts of Winterfell obscuring the sea.
"What moves you to smile, Your Grace?" Varys asked softly, as the Sealord's body was ferried off into the waves by a raft weighed down with flowers. The waters were calm, dragging the corpse out with the tide.
"Something he said," Daenerys replied, bowing out of respect for the old man as one of the candles caught a drizzle of oil and erupted in flame. "He spoke as though we were all trapped in a cycle, over and over, doomed to repeat."
"And that made you smile?"
"There is some comfort," she turned away from the body burning on the water. The others copied her. "Knowing that we'll all meet again. That the world will turn over. Will we learn from our mistakes? I rather believe we'll make them afresh."
Varys never understood what made her smile. The mad smile at anything.
The bankers presented Daenerys with papers of legitimacy, declaring her the true queen of Westeros. Varys bundled them up, locking them in his trunk along with Jorah's pardon and other documents of the State.
It was night. The waters turned. The queen's ship was freed of its moorings. Sails were unfurled to the wind. They flapped sharply, filling with salt air. Cruising around the bay, the dragons heard. They dipped their wings, turning toward the ship. Behind, black smoke from the Iron Bank trailed into the sky. Daenerys remained on deck, leaning over the rail. Her eyes were on the shrinking stain of Braavos. She feared it was the last time she'd lay eyes on it. Something stirred beside her.
"Your Grace..."
Daenerys turned to find Jorah nearby, his hand on the shoulder of a skinny child. Missandei had done her best to clean Arya up but she still resembled a common street rat.
"May I present Lady Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark."
He is nervous, Daenerys observed the tremble in his voice.
"I have pledged to return her home, to Winterfell."
Pledged without asking permission, that is why he shakes. Daenerys observed the face of her knight carefully. His eyes pleaded with her, glossy in the moonlight. Starks and Mormonts, a bond much older and stronger than the one they shared. He never asked anything of her. The flicker of jealousy confused Daenerys. He'd given her no reason to doubt his loyalty. She was his queen. The North is his home.
Daenerys' reply was a deliberate nod. Jorah released Arya, who scampered off across the deck to hide amongst the ropes and whisper names at the night.
Jorah's eyes were cast down, following the cracks in the ship's deck instead of the searching eyes of his queen. He had overstepped his position as her council and she had allowed it.
"Lift your eyes, ser, you might learn something."
He did and nearly fell when he saw his queen's expression formed into a soft smile. "Her father was killed by the Lannisters, as mine was."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"And I need to build alliances in the North."
"Yes, Your Grace."
"Then once again you have brought me a gift." Her 'gift' was hanging in a mess of ropes dangerously close to the water. Daenerys stepped away from the rail but allowed her hand to trail along its polished surface as she walked. Her silver hair was almost white in the moonlight, which robbed the faint mauve hue from her robes. She was a ghost, transiting the world like a breath of wind.
"Anha zhilak yera norethaan..." The unguarded words slipped from his lips like a spring rain as she walked away. They had been so quiet that for a moment he thought she had not heard but then his queen paused, tilting her head up to look at the moon.
"I know..."
The distance between them had increased tenfold since she'd returned from the Sealord. Whatever he shared with her, Daenerys used it to build a wall around herself. The queen vanished below deck, locking herself in her cabin. The lanterns flared. Their flames twisted violently in glass cages, spurred on by will. Outside her window, the moon sank toward the water. She swiped a glass of wine from her table and flung it furiously at the window. It hit the sill, smashing in a crimson explosion. Wine dripped onto the floor. Daenerys slid down the surface of the door.
They both heard the goblet shatter below deck. Jorah flinched. Varys did not. The two had not spoken since Varys returned to the ship with the Martell prince. They were ferrying him as far as the The Stepstones.
"What did he tell the queen?"
Varys shrugged. "I do not know."
They were sailing toward certain war. It was in the air. Jorah could smell the burned bodies and festering corpses before they fell.
"You've been in a scrap," Varys added, noticing fresh cuts on the knight's flesh.
"It was a long journey," Jorah replied. "Drogon has his own way of travel."
"Asshai..."
"Yes," Jorah confirmed quietly, "Asshai."
Varys went quiet, meditating on thoughts of those blackened shores. He itched to ask what it was like to walk among the ruins of magic. It was a sick fascination with the power that took part of his flesh. He often imagined the twisted buildings from the Old Town texts. Any traveller to pass through King's Landing was brought to his door for interrogation. Obsession. It brimmed in the edges of Varys' eyes. Mormont could sense it.
"The North is breaking apart," Jorah said instead. "Your little birds will arrive with confirmation soon enough but we were there, on the shores of Bear Island when the Wildlings attacked. They made it across the Bay of Ice."
They're coming. They're coming. The words circled Varys' thoughts. "It would take all the armies of Westeros – and more beside – to hold the North."
"Dragons will help."
Varys nodded. They had two of the three, trailing the ship.
"What haven't you said?" Jorah prompted, as Varys watched the dragons.
"Yin..."
"What of it?"
"Gone, they say. Raided by pirates."
"You should speak to the queen." Mormont dared not speak any more on the subject. The queen had set the armies of the East into motion and not told a soul why. Perhaps she would tell Varys and he could tear it out of the spider later. Varys took a step backwards, crossing Jorah's path before he could leave. "Yes?"
"At least present yourself to Missandei – have a look at those cuts. The last thing the queen needs is you dying at sea before the battle."
Missandei's stitching left a great deal to be desired.
"Something bothering you?" Jorah offered, as she pulled a stitch through so tightly it nearly ripped a fresh hole. "Daenerys will be pleased to see you."
"The queen has locked herself in her quarters." Another sharp tug. "There. At least you won't bleed all over the ship."
Jorah stood, about to leave when Missandei stopped him. She'd spied the tear in his calf where the strange robes didn't quite reach. Shaking her head, she knelt down in front of him, parting the fabric to get a look. Her hands flew away when she saw the odd script faded into his skin. Jorah stepped away from her.
"It's fine."
"What happened?"
"It's fine."
In his quarters, Jorah stripped out of the robe and stood before the mirror. The script covered his skin like a shadow. It waxed and waned with the poison in his blood.
"What are you doing? You bloody fool..." Jorah addressed his reflection. He was in too deep.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Tyrion waited at the door, head resting against the familiar surface. He could hear Missandei inside, shuffling around.
"It's only me," he added, as if to coax her out. Knock. Knock. Knock. Knock. Silence. "Is something wrong?" he offered, turning to lay against her door instead. "Did I do something?" he added. "More than likely. That's usually the case. If I have, I'm sorry. Missandei?" Tyrion sighed, giving up for the moment.
BAY OF ICE – THE NORTH
There was more ice than water. It slid against the boat in a slurry as Dorin dragged the oar through the mess. The front of the open boat was occupied by the Wildling maester. He clutched a bag to his chest containing the volatile flasks of Wildfire.
Their world was consumed by the sound of ice cracking against the wood. Over and over. It was an endless cycle as they crept closer to the white shore. They could see the cliffs rearing up – one side made of rock and the other of ice, cleaving into the water. Strung between them was a vault of wood, frozen sold over the centuries. The Bridge of Skulls.
Dorin lashed the boat to the Eastern side of the bay before helping the maester onto the treacherous, ice-covered dock that barely managed to cling to the land. The water, which once ferociously gushed out the lips of the gorge, was almost stationary, locked by the cold.
Together, they climbed the stairs and emerged beside the ruins of Westwatch. Black and decrepit, the right flank of the building had been eaten by The Wall.
"My gods..." The maester fell to his knees at the sight of The Wall.
Dorin fished him from the snow. "No time." He dragged the maester along, through the remains of the iron gates and out toward the bridge.
They stood at the edge, between he pillars. It was not so much a 'bridge of skulls' as a passage of frozen corpses. Whatever malady befell this place its victims had been frozen into the structure of the bridge. Those bony faces screamed at them, contorted in eternal terror. Beyond, there was a rise of white and then nothing.
"Nothing." The maester stepped onto the edge of the bridge. It was oddly firm underfoot. The wind had no effect. It rushed against the fangs of ice hanging from the rail. Snow fell, concealing the ice.
Dorin didn't trust the quiet. "Nothing yet."
The men looked behind to the castle and plain of ice – Westeros, its northern edge, as desolate and dead as the Lands of Always Winter. The bridge linked the two. Dorin nodded at the maester. "Destroy it."
The maester stepped forward. "Help me?"
Progress was slow. Every step was a temptation for death. The ice underfoot tried to tear them from the bridge while the wind grabbed their cloaks, picking them up and fanning them out like a ship's sails. The maester was in front, gripping the rail with both hands as he neared the centre of the bridge. He stopped at a Wildling corpse stretched over the ground ahead. It could have died yesterday.
"Here will do," Dorin said, ignoring the body.
The maester finally nodded and together they raided his bag of Wildfire. They could not light it from the bridge with a candle – the wind was too strong, so as the maester secured the last of it amongst the corpses, Dorin returned to the land and knelt in the snow. He smashed flint together, preparing to light the arrows they'd brought with them.
He felt it first.
A tremble in the snow.
With a tiny flame growing in the oiled rags beneath his hands, Dorin lifted his head. The ridge of ice on the other side of the bridge filled with corpses. They stood, bones and dead men held up by a terrible magic. Countless eyes. An army of the dead.
