PRINCE of NOTHING
THE SHIVERING SEA
Daenerys woke up in a pool of sickly sweet wine. It had dried during the night and was tacky beneath her hands as she pressed body of the floor and lifted her head at the sun. Her hair fell over her face in sad turns of silver. Even the light hurt as it pierced her gaze. Too much wine. How like the imp she was becoming. Many rulers drank to excess and for a fleeting moment last night she understood why. The world was crushing in around her. It was as though the edges of the map were folding inward, cutting her off from a once vast expanse into an ever-shrinking point of certainty. King's Landing. War. The moment where she would live or die with her conviction.
Success terrified her.
The Iron Throne waited. In her visions it was always black, twisted and burned. She was queen of the ruins. Princess of a smouldering wreck. The molten ranges of Asshai formed her seat of power while her dragons kept guard. They played now, diving in the distance, fishing in the shivering waves where the occasional berg of ice mirrored the sun.
She could not forget the North. Never had she been closer to her nightmares than standing on the edge of the cliff looking over to the frozen shore. Fate planned her return. The snow could bury her bones. Ice holding fire in its tomb. Would she stay like that – preserved through time like one of the screaming faces in the Weirwood trees? She'd rather burn.
No sooner had she found her feet Daenerys fell again, crouching with her head between her knees. The world shifted oddly. Pain throbbed across her forehead. She reached out to the door to steady herself. Someone knocked. She fumbled to the wall beside and opened it.
"Your Grace..." Tyrion dropped the second word when he saw the state of her. The queen smelled like a whore den in Pentos. Without a thought, Tyrion pushed his way into the room and closed the door, surprised at his own boldness. "Right." He said, as much to himself as the bewildered queen. "How about we start by sitting."
Despite his stature, Tyrion was able to navigate the dragon to her bed where she sat wearily on its edge. "Please leave," she snapped at him but her words lacked venom. "These are my quarters. My private quarters. If I want you here I will – I'll summon you." She had to fish for words.
"You missed our morning briefing," he explained, still a little drunk himself. "I was sent in search of you."
Daenerys was surprised that it had not been Missandei or Jorah... Perhaps the lion really did have all the courage. "What time is it?"
"Later than you think. No – sit. You'll keel over with a face like that. Varys said you drank but -"
"Varys said what..."
Oh, there was a flicker of the dragon waking. "Never mind what Varys says." Tyrion presented her with a cup of water and made her drink. "Another few of these. Drink until that greenish hue fades." Tentatively he rubbed her back as she canted forward, looking very ill. "It'll pass," he assured her. "What caused it won't... Unless you wished to talk about it." She pushed him away. "All right, no talking. We'll just sit here then. Enjoy the sun. Pleasant day on the water, all things considered. That Dornish prince is settling in best he can with Varys trailing his every step and Jorah threatening to throw him to the dragons. His brooding has intensified ten-fold since I last saw him. Sullen creatures – Mormonts. Had a dull boat ride with him once. The high point was being attacked by Stonemen, which tells you all you need to know about the company."
Daenerys spoke if only to quiet the Lannister. "I've never seen the city," she whispered. "I know all the stories about the sprawl of civilisation that rears up at the water, ending in the Red Keep, melted into the city wall. A sea-fairing fortress – seat of power, guarded by a coalition of armies. Even if we can take the city without burning it to the ground, conquered people are nest of vipers."
"Ah..." Tyrion replied, after quite some time spent in contemplation. "You fear the absence of love." He had never pitied nor envied her more. "I used to walk through the cellars of King's Landing not for the reason you think. They kept the dragon skulls down there, the ones that used to line the throne room. I stood toe-to-toe with the largest of the creatures and marvelled how I might fit inside its jaws. The smallest was the size of my cat who took quite a fondness for curling up on the bones. Closing my eyes, I tried to imagine what they might have been like in life, tearing through the skies above the city – nesting on the rocky piles jutting out from the sea nearby. I've always had a fondness for them, you see. Drogon was the first dragon I saw in the flesh."
"In the fighting pits of Meereen-"
"-no." He interrupted. "No it was before then. When Mormont and I were sailing through the waters of Old Valyria a dragon emerged from the smoking sky. He glided through the grey expanse, barely moving his wings. I could hear him cutting the air and I thought, there is the truth of the world. Dragons are pure. They are violence, power and magic yet we love them knowing full well that when our backs are turned we might be snapped in their jaws. Maybe that's why we love them."
"Are you trying to tell me I should be ruthless and murderous?"
It was Tyrion's turn to drink the water. "I don't know what I'm trying to tell you," he confessed. "I'm drunk myself."
He watched the queen as she crossed the deck of the ship. Daenerys knew the feel of his eyes. Unusual, she thought, that he was sitting by the rail. Normally Jorah made a point to linger as a static pillar. The rolling of the waves did not bother him yet he was paler than the moon.
"Your Grace," Daenerys addressed the Dornish prince.
"You will like Dorne, I think," Quentyn picked at a splinter in the ship's rail. He worried it until the wood was smooth again. That's how he liked the world. Safe. Untarnished. Logical. "Six of the seven kingdoms are a web, straining against the wind. The death toll is rising. The bodies are caught in thread, pulling at the little invisible hooks that keep it secured to the tree. Dorne is different. We exist outside the web."
"Thought not out of sight of the spider..."
Varys paced nearby, taking silent laps around the ship, waiting for his birds to return.
"There are spiders all over the world," Quentyn shrugged, following her lead. "If you intend to win a war on the capital you will need to launch it on three fronts. Land, sea and air. Dorne holds the gate keys. We know the deserts and mountains that protect the south-western flanks. We've breached them more than once."
"That path takes us directly across the armies of Highgarden and whatever is left of the Baratheons at Storm's End."
"Lands of the blind, Queen Daenerys. We could slip the whole kingdom by their door and they'd be none the wiser." The prince turned to the waters and the dragons. He still did not believe what he had seen. "Where are the dragons heading?" They had parted company from the ship and were indistinguishable from common seabirds.
"There are old nesting grounds on the mountains of the Vale. Dragons lust after the sea caves which are impenetrable from the land. If they've not broached those shores yet they'll certainly find homes in them tonight. They must rest and they there is not enough room for them both to roost on the ship."
"So you know your way around Westeros..."
"I know what I've seen in maps and listened to the stories my council has provided. Many of my advisors have spent their lives in the Western cities."
"What council did they give surrounding me?"
Daenerys sized up the prince. "That I should marry you," she said, so easily that Quentyn Martell nearly choked on the salty air. "Align my rule to the kingdom that has, for so long, sought a place on the throne. Am I correct? This is Dorne's great ambition, is it not? Rescue an exiled princess, seat her on the throne and take the kingship as payment for services rendered."
"And that is what you believe my ambition to be?" He tone was curious, cunning. Not in the least offended by her suggestion.
"No." The queen surveyed him fiercely. "Marrying me is a risk. Conquest rulers very rarely enjoy permanence on the throne. Even if they live, those that follow from their line are picked off, one by one as the other houses hunger after a crown. Besides," she tempered somewhat, "it does not suit you."
"That is quite true," Quentyn confirmed. Everything about him was overtly perfect, from the crisp folds in his tunic to the matching patterns stitched into their hems. Beneath those were carefully sculpted muscles and an even, tanned hide. He reminded her of an ornate peacock, strutting on the forest floor. "Though it is not the reason. Our little birds informed us of what is common knowledge in the East. You cannot bear children. There are no heirs of your line. You'll be the dragon queen, Your Grace, of that there is no doubt but you are the last dragon. Who rules the Seven Kingdoms after you?"
"The law of succession..."
The prince nodded. "We have waited thousands of years for our throne. What's another fifty?" Quentyn could feel the knight's eyes on him too. The sour man looked at him as though imagining an elaborate death. "He loves you fiercely. The knight," he added, when Daenerys failed to follow. "Devotion like that is difficult to come by in a world where everyone is clawing over each other, climbing into nowhere. He doesn't care for it – does he? The game..."
"Northern men have no need of thrones or crowns," she replied, turning into the wind to hide the blush on her porcelain skin. Was she as transparent as her knight?
"Good." Quentyn then presented Daenerys with a woven bracelet adorned with silver and gold charms. It was a promise symbol.
"I thought we agreed not to marry?"
"Oh, we won't," Quentyn assured her. "The others don't need to know that. As long as they think the deal is sealed they can expend their effort worrying about more important things..."
Daenerys was no fool at all. "You mean, when I am queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I can buy the other houses with land and gold rather than hollow promises of a throne." She noticed another charm hung around the prince's neck. It was no idle adornment. The pendant was made of knotted dragonglass – a symbol of love. "Who is she?"
The prince re-arranged his robes awkwardly to hide the necklace. "A grain of sand in the desert."
Daenerys accepted his bracelet, extending her wrist so that he could tie it. "Best you lie and pretend that is from me," she whispered, leaning forward to kiss him on the cheek. "If you'll excuse me, I must retire to my rooms to rest."
"Of course." He bowed low as the queen left. Her knight was not even attempting to hide his contempt. Absurd man. If only he knew that the queen returned his affections. The prince was not rash enough to come between lovers. Passionate people did unpredictable things. He'd have to make a friend out of the Mormont if he wanted to survive. He started with a friendly nod in Jorah's direction which was returned with a disgusted look as Jorah averted his eyes back to the ocean where the dragons had vanished.
"Careful, with that one..." Varys strolled up toward the prince. He seemed almost surprised that after years of careful planning the Dorish man had materialised – not his original preference but a prince all the same.
"I'm always careful, Varys," Quentyn collected the pipe he'd left smoking on a barrel beside and took a long drag. "More careful than you, it would appear. That was risky, what you pulled off in Braavos. It is not as you made out to the queen, a city in love with dragons. She was hidden there precisely because it was the opposite. They'll never bow to her – or honour the deals that you think you have struck."
"The Braavosi don't need to honour anything for long. Long enough... That's all we need."
"You be careful, Spider, with these games that you play. There's only one dragon and you're walking her into a pit of chaos filled with those who wish her dead."
"Oh my, is that genuine concern for your future wife?" Varys asked.
"Concern for the realm," Quentyn was leaving a trail of perfumed smoke on the air. The colours of the world were already brighter to him and the nerves that made his hands shake were quiet. He was steady, at rest with the glimpse of land on the Western shore. The wiles of Westeros. Savage cliffs, awkward harbours and ungodly shorelines festered with sea creatures even the Drowned God had rejected. "We're all on the same side," he assured the other man. "There are better players than you waiting in Westeros and a line of lords eyeing the throne."
"What of your progress – have you done as promised?"
"I spent my time in Braavos paying off debts. What you asked for is done. Now we play the only game that matters. If we get there..." he added, nodding to the clutches of grey on the horizon. "We are seamen who bettered the desert, Varys. We bring the waters into our dunes and build beauty for the simple joy of it. The ruins of Chroyane are ancestor to our sprawling Water Gardens. Where water meets dust, life thrives but fire and ice? All you'll see is smoke from their collapse."
"You leave the North to me," Varys replied.
Quentyn dragged on his pipe. "Anything further than The Neck is of no interest to Dorne."
"I heard that the true history of Dorne lies in the collapsing streets of the Shadow City..."
"Oh Varys..." Quentyn relaxed back on the ship's rail, lounging over it as though it were one of his expensive palace couches. "You need to learn to be forgiving of culture's blind eye. We, all of us, select the happiest memories to build on. It would be a sad world indeed if we were trapped by truth."
Jorah waited many hours before stumbling below deck – stumbling because the ship had run into Northern winds and a choppy stretch of water that shook the vessel roughly from side to side until half the passengers braved the driving rain to lurch their stomachs overboard. The Dornish prince had left the scent of his pipe through the entirety of the lower decks after retreating from the rain. Jorah expected them all to have succumbed into a stupor by morning.
He plucked a lantern from the wall before it had the chance to fall and rested a moment, laying against the hall while a particularly large wave listed the ship. All around he could hear objects slide. Tables, stools, beds and men – anything that wasn't nailed to the oak.
His legs were steady but his brow shone with sweat as he knocked on the queen's door with a trembling hand. She took her time answering. When she did it was with an unusual reluctance. Daenerys shied away from the slither through which Jorah implored.
'I'm unwell...' she rebuffed, to which he replied, "That would be the wine." The door opened anyway and Jorah wandered in, taking stock of her state as he laid his lantern on the table. It was pushed against the wall, washed there by the motion of the waves along with most of her possessions. There was wine in the room but she hadn't touched it. The ship's window was closed and an orange cloth draped over it. "You are engaged to Quentyn Martell."
It was a statement, not a question. The bracelet was easily visible on her naked wrist. Its charms knocked together as she dragged a chair over. "As you see."
"The other houses, they won't like it, khaleesi. Marriage is one of your most valuable cards. You play it now and-" Her fingers pressed against his lips. For the first time in days, her eyes lifted to his and he saw the truth in them. She was hiding. In this room. On this ship. Hiding like a spider in a web while the threads were laid. There were creatures at the wall, listening. She pointed them out with her gaze.
Jorah made deliberately vague conversation directed at the weather while Daenerys took a quill and scratched out a message. She held the parchment up.
Trust me.
The words, clear as her eyes. Trust. That's all she asked. The parchment clipped the edge of the flame from Jorah's lantern and curled up, consumed. It dropped into an empty wine goblet and turned to ash.
"Yes, I am in engaged to the prince of Dorne as Varys suggested," she replied, lying openly for the benefit of the walls. The queen lingered closer to the knight, lightly resting her hand over his. She preferred open war to these games of whispers but they would be playing politics in a jar until they made port. Varys, Tyrion and the prince of Dorne all had ambitions held close to their chest. Daenerys needed to know what those were.
His hands were warm. Always. She'd noticed it in the cave while he'd held her. He shifted ever so slightly, flipping his hand over so that they were palm to palm. They could not say anything with the keen walls lingering on their words.
"As Your Grace wishes," Jorah kept his voice steady.
Not her knight. His ambitions were hers. His will was hers. "Indeed, it is as I wish." His jealousy was as good as smoke. Daenerys leaned closer, wishing to brush her lips to his but not trusting herself.
"Go."
"Yes, khaleesi. Goodnight, khaleesi."
As he left, holding his lantern in the depths of the ship, Jorah came across a forlorn Tyrion ambling from side to side. Were his the ears that his queen feared at her door and if not, what was the Lannister doing wandering alone at this hour?
He coughed at the smoke. "Seven Hells, what is that?" Tyrion muttered then nodded at the sullen Mormont, introduced himself rather firmly with a wall and tumbled into his own room defeated. He must have done something wrong. Tyrion could think of no other reason for Missandei's change of heart. He'd enjoyed their conversations but now the queen was back and Missandei's attention had, quite rightly, shifted focus.
He lifted his glass to the rough seas at his window. Ocean spray wafted in, wetting half his room. It would be a veneer of salt in the morning.
PLAINS OF THE JOGOS NAI - ESSOS
'It lounges among the dunes, drowning the low lying land with water too salty to drink. Our number eye it with lust as they drag through the desert. Men. Women. A mass of souls strung up with hope. The false hope of a dragon queen fed by fear. The fear is real. It hunts us across the dunes. We hear them sometimes. Shrikes. Lone wanders from the Eastern lands. Creatures twisted by the arts festering in their soul. One night they'll linger at the edges of our camp. Deformed hands and wretched mouths watered with -'
The parchment was snatched away from the Lorath traveller. It was late in the afternoon. The camp of wanderers had settled on a rise of pink sandstone protruding from the shifting desert. Its crystal-cut surface was a mercy where their tents found purchase. It was a city of animal skin, as fragile as the whispering breeze. At their feet lapped the Bleeding Sea whose waters were clear and devoid of all life except for sprawling flowers that hung deathly still beneath the surface. They were old. Some thrived to the size of mountain bears. Together they formed a crimson pool – a ruby in the skeleton of wasted lands that died on the edge of the map. Beasts separated from the herd screamed as the tribesmen slaughtered them. Others were already on the fire as people broke off into smaller groups to feast.
Bu Gai held the parchment between two fingers as though it were a rock snake. Language was still an issue between the Lorathean and the prince of Yin but they were beginning to form an understanding.
"Birds?" Bu Gai managed in the Common Tongue. They didn't have a thread of speech between them.
The traveller nodded, carefully taking back the parchment. He pointed at the text then toward the red waters to their right so that the prince could understand. Their camp was heading North as the dragon queen commanded. Soon the desert would end where the whispering forests of Mossovy claw their way into the wet, cool lowlands. It marked the very edge of his former enemy, Pol Quo's territories and though he could not express it in words, the man from Lorath could see the fear rising in his eyes.
He was an elegant vision as he moved to sit on the cusp of sandstone and spent the afternoon with the sun at his back. If the cursed people of Yi Ti were following they were far behind. Bu Gai was haunted by memories of his ruined empire and the army of screaming, twisted souls that had consumed them. Thousands of years in unbroken civilisation and it had ended with his rule. Now he marched with foreign people bonded in desperation and his closest ally was a strange man who muttered nonsense to his ravens. He placed his hand over the scar on his stomach. The disease ate away at him, marking his days.
'I feel the abyss looking back,' the traveller scrawled. 'There are endless vistas, all of them a veil over our eyes. What hides in them are shadows and creatures that feed off the dark. We head toward them, encroaching the edges of their realm. If we make it clear of the desert our next port is the city of Nefer – the Secret City. If I do not write to you again, dear friends, then assume our entrails hang over their gates. Our hearts are powdered in the chalk of necromancers' spells – may their power haunt this wretched place with a fresh hue of whispers.'
THE SHIVERING SEA
Daenerys pulled back the cloth from her window. A raven from the East ducked in, swooping around the room shedding storm water from its feathers. She cornered it with a handful of shredded bread and waited until it fed before untangling the message from its scrawny leg. She had two silent armies closing on the West – one that braved the frozen, dangerous forests in the North and the other, skirting around the poisoned cities in the South. Against the odds they both progressed, as she knew they would. Her visions never lied.
"Missandei..." Daenerys had been waiting. Her advisor bowed and stepped in, eyeing the raven making itself at home in the queen's quarters. The official birds were kept with Varys meaning whatever correspondence the queen was involved in, she had chosen to keep it private. "Do you see the light?"
"My Lady?"
"To the West – under the storm," she nodded at the open window. It was dark outside but there was a flicker of white from a lonely castle reaching out into the abyss. "Where the last bolt of light struck. That is where I was born. Dragonstone – a miserable castle perched on a disaster. By all accounts it is a hateful place. I remember-" That wasn't true. She didn't remember a moment of her time inside those walls but she had seen its cold stone arches and shoreline made of bone. "Well, anyway..."
Daenerys was drawn to a glimpse of silver in her robes. "You're armed?"
Missandei pulled her dress over the knife. "I thought it wise, considering where we are headed."
"Has Grey Worm been teaching you?" It was well meant but stumbled Missandei who looked away.
"I – a little."
The queen's interest drifted to the storm. These waters teamed with trading craft, none of which paid the slightest attention to them now that they flew the official Braavosi banners. It was alarming to realise that so many comforts of the realm depended on the vessels writhing helplessly at the whim of the Drowned God.
"When we arrive in the Stepstones things will move fast," she warned "We take the fleet of Unsullied to Dorne along with the remaining Dothraki. Settle them. Feed the men and beasts and then they must march."
"What of your ships?" Missandei asked. "To win King's Landing you must hit from the sea."
"Most of our ships will be sailed by Dornish men. I want you to go with the Unsullied, across the mountains."
"Your Grace..." she protested. "Surely my place is with you?"
"I need someone I can trust to keep an eye on the Martell prince – someone with diplomatic skill who isn't inclined to murder him in a jealous rage," she added. "We'll meet at King's Landing."
"What about the girl?"
"The Stark girl? What of her?"
"Nothing only, I've been looking after her since we left Braavos and I thought..."
"Jorah is taking her to Winterfell. It's a matter of honour. The girl stays with us."
Jorah faced the glass candle, staring into its black heart for hours on end. The ship rocked. The storm growled and scratched at the wood. It remained untouched by the world, shrouded in magic.
"What is it?" Arya asked, sitting opposite.
"A doorway that cannot be guarded. Did your maester in Winterfell teach you about magic?" Arya nodded at the knight's question. "Well, this is a magical thing. There used to be dozens of them in the world. They are similar to the Weirwood trees that grow in our lands. Those with magic can use them to communicate."
"We don't have any magic," Arya pointed out dryly.
"No, we don't. Even if we did, Northern magic is different from Eastern spells."
"How do we tell if it's broken?"
Jorah laughed, shaking his head. "I saw the queen light it. She has magic."
"I thought those things on your arm were magic..."
He rolled his sleeve up slightly, eyeing the words etched in the queen's blood. "You are right," Jorah nodded. "The queen used blood magic but such things are very risky – there is always a price to it. The gods are unreasonable. They rejoice in ransoming mortals for brief moments of life. My advice is to stay as far away from the realms of magic as you can, Arya Stark. Whatever you think it's given you, it'll take something back. If it's only your life then you are lucky. I think about it every day – wondering what this magic will take as payment for my life."
"There was magic in Braavos..." she started to reply, remembering her blindness from the waters in The House of Black and White. "At least, I heard that too. You hear a lot of things on the street." There was a pause. Arya watched the black candle, dipping her head as though she were a wolf on the prowl, stalking the wastelands of ice. "Are you really going to take me home?"
"Aye," Jorah promised. "I owe your father that much. Do you want to know a secret?" The girl nodded. "There was a time when your father could have killed me but he chose mercy. That kindness is something I wish to repay but for the sake of everyone else, let's just call it, 'honour'. You understand?"
The candle tipped, falling across the table where it bled wax and flame. Varys startled. The sudden glow of fire died in an instant leaving him in the pitch. His eyes adjusted. Fragments of light flared under the storm, illuminating the ashes on his desk. He reached down, snapping the piece of parchment from the freshly cooled wax. The words were clear. A warning from his new friends in Braavos.
He swore at all seven hateful gods then went to rouse the imp.
Tyrion was enormously put out by the spider at his door in the dead of night. "It's late," he complained. "No – early. Far too early, Varys. Your whispers won't die in the night." Varys didn't wait for permission before forcing his way into the room – followed by Jorah Mormont. "Bugger the gods, what's he doing here?"
"Quiet..." Jorah warned the Lannister. "Listen before you curse us into a watery grave. None of that." Jorah set the wine on the top shelf, out of reach.
"All right... Speak."
"We have a serious problem." Varys addressed them, circling the tiny room. "At Braavos we took on more than legal documents and a Northern orphan. Have you heard of the Faceless men?"
"The assassins that can – do the thing with the face?"
"The most dangerous killers in any kingdom. They trade identities like we wear clothes. It seems as if one of the Iron Bank's men was not on board with out peaceful conquest of Westeros. Tycho writes to warn us that the following information was sourced during torture. A member of the assassins' order of Faceless Men boarded our vessel before we departed the Purple Harbour. Whoever it is, they've been paid by a breakaway faction of loyalists to kill the dragon queen and her pending rule – to which they object."
"If they are such good assassins then why isn't she dead?" Tyrion asked the obvious question more bluntly than he meant. "Sorry – I just, we've been at sea for days."
"These men, they wait until the right moment. It's how they work. They'll smile and bow for years if they're asked and plunge a knife through your back in the first second of the hour."
"We have no way of knowing when that particular hour is..."
"How do we kill them?" Jorah spoke, ready to stalk from one end of the ship to the next.
"How do we find them..." Varys corrected.
"What about the prince?"
"Too vane," Varys paused in front of Tyrion. "If there's a Faceless Man on board he'll be keeping to the shadows. That's how they prefer to work. Ghosts, all of them. Famously vaporous. They target people without personal relations. Mimicking someone is one thing – knowing them intimately is beyond the means of men that have departed any measure of 'personal'."
Arya stuck to the outside of the ship, her arms and legs balanced on the heavy ropes. She'd been trained to listen – to gather intelligence – anything to help her complete her kill. When the spider rushed through the corridors in the middle of the night, Arya moved directly to the deck. She could hear them now. Her secret was out. They knew that she was on board. It was only a matter of time until they discovered her rouse. She gripped the rope as her heart raced against her rib cage. The rain was falling harder, running off her eyelashes like water from the leaves of the Godwood.
"We stay calm," Varys insisted, resuming his pace.
Tyrion began to sober. "By your reasoning, Varys, it could be anyone including the people in this room."
"Well I know it's not me," Varys started, "and it can't be you. Their mastery of illusion is not perfect. They can't take a man and pass him off as an imp – your size, for once, is your greatest asset."
"And him?"
They turned to Jorah in unison.
"Even if one of them managed to kill him, no one living can replicate a Mormont scowl. I thought he was going to rip the throat out of our new Dornish friend."
Jorah wasn't sure if he was meant to take that as flattery. "So what – we search the ship? We don't even know what we're looking for."
"Whomever it is, they'll be keeping watch. That's what we look for. Someone with keen eyes."
STEPSTONES – BETWEEN THE NARROW AND SUMMER SEAS
The bulk of the queen's fleet was lashed together in the grasp of a hidden harbour. Together, the ships rose and fell with the waves like one great expanse of oak and iron wood. The Unsullied had strung the sails across them in one enormous shade cloth giving a measure of protection to the thousands of souls left wandering the brutal, grim world within the Stepstones.
While the Unsullied manned the boats, the Dothraki roamed the rocky shores, catching gulls and snatching their eggs. Sometimes they brought back seal meat which they roasted on fires cut into the rock. It was a vile existence, like being marooned. Every now and then a foreign vessel stuck its nose in their direction. Like rats, they hid away and waited for it to pass.
Grey Worm liked to walk the outskirts of the harbour. Wearing scraps of his armour, his already tanned skin had darkened from weeks in the sun. He carried a satchel, filling it with crabs, molluscs and snails. Anything to feed the desperate fleet. The horses were mostly rib. The Dothraki did what they could but nothing grew out of the rock. If the queen's ship did not return soon, they would have to break with the harbour and make sail for Dorne without her or die where they stood.
It struck him suddenly, standing on the unforgiving ridge of rock that bounded the fleet from the rough waters, how fragile the divide between everything and nothing was.
CITADEL – OLD TOWN
Sam liked to imagine the city in various stages of decay. As he gazed over the chaotic rise of mismatched buildings he thought only of the vines creeping through the first layer of brick. Occasional sprays of white flowers distracted from the horror of being consumed alive – living off the corpse of Old Town before it had died. One day, when the gods had their vengeance of the living, this would be nothing more than a curious shore, festering with gulls who made their nests in the thousand window sills.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
Sam pulled away from the window of Marwyn's office. "We were never really sure," he lied, shrugging. "It wasn't much, you see... Just this old Night's Watch cloak with spear heads like the ones you've got in the cabinets outside."
Marwyn was silent, lingering by the door of his office, surrounded by shelves full of hideous objects. It was with a deep sigh that he finally replied, "Still an appalling liar. For a man like you it is safer to keep your mouth shut. Since you didn't – why don't you follow me?"
He vanished into the hall leaving Sam dumbfounded, one hand on the window sill – damp with rain. Marwyn's head reappeared around the corner of the room. "That means follow."
"Where are we going?" Sam asked, as Marwyn led him deep into the heart of the building. The stone and blonde brick eventually gave way to raw-cut stone. It was black, soaked in some form of sickly oil that coated his hands when he accidentally brushed against them.
"Hideous, isn't it?" He said, seeing Sam wipe his hands on his new maester robes.
"What is it?"
"No one's really quite sure. There are outcrops of it all over the world – usually in the oldest seats of civilisation. The base of the Hightower is made of the same thing. Whatever was here before this sprawl of academia must have been important. Ironic, isn't it?"
"What is?" Sam replied, with a good natured frown.
"That there is more knowledge locked in these walls than anywhere else in the world and yet we know nothing of our own fold in history. It's all a rouse, you see – knowledge. We hoard it as though quantity equated meaning. Here..." They entered another series of locked rooms, each more secure than the last. "You know that's not true."
"I do. I mean – do I?" Sam wasn't entirely sure what he was agreeing with – if it was a compliment, accusation or trap. Maybe it was all of them.
"The old dragon at Castle Black. He spent a great deal of time squirrelling things away. Mostly the shelves were full of scraps. I remember them, the unsteady piles of faded scrolls. Dust. That's what always struck me. When you've spent so many years in the company of books you grow accustomed to the layer of time that coats everything but in the North there's nothing to fall except the snow."
"You've been to Castle Black?"
"Oh yes. More than once," Marwyn dragged out another set of keys from the folds of his robes and unlocked the next door. There was a sequence of strange clicks as something mechanical started two twist and drag against the inner walls. "Puzzle-box locks – famous in the deserted cities of Essos. Only a few were ever crafted in Westeros. One in the palace at King's Landing. It was found in the old part of the city and so they were forced to build on top of it. Haven't you ever wondered why the city is so poorly laid out? No. I suppose not. You are from the North."
Sam's nerves started to twitch as the door opened and a freezing breath of air escaped. It smelled like dust after the rain. "And – the others?" he asked cautiously.
"Well, here of course," Marwyn touched the door affectionately as they entered, "and in the Shadow City of Dorne." Before they proceeded, Marwyn waited for the door to lock.
"It's cold down here." The many torches in flame against the wall struggled to keep a hold of life. It was like they were stifled by the air or something living in it. "Oh... Is that dragonglass?" Sam leaned closer to the walls which now gleamed like a tunnel of mirrors covered in frost. "What's down here?"
"A souvenir of war. It used to be kept in the Hightower but I had it moved for protection."
"I don't understand..."
"I know where you've been Tarly. I can read it in your eyes. People are different after they've seen one in the flesh. It's like looking at death. The experience marks you. Lord Commander Snow sent you here for the truth well, I have some truth for you."
They turned the next corner together. The temperature dropped sharply. Sam could see his breath in the air, dying with the faint light of the torches. It was deathly cold. There was more to it – Sam could feel it in his throat, stealing his breath before his lips could part. He'd only felt that once before, huddled behind a boulder in the middle of a snow field at the edge of the world.
Sam knew exactly what waited for him around that corner.
