CITADEL – OLD TOWN

Sam backed away from the prison cell. Its bars were cast from dragonglass crafted into impossible threads, gnarled like the wax of expired candles pooled in Old Town's sprawling library. They dripped infinitesimally slow, the walls too. A box of fire frozen solid. It would have been stunning if it weren't such a horrifying thing to look upon.

A creature waited inside. Its frost-kept skin took in the weak hues of torchlight and reflected them back ten fold. It was flesh. Ice. Something other than human. Whatever it was, Sam's skin crawled at the sight.

"How do you like my secret, Tarly?" Marwyn brandished a sadistic grin while the ghoul lingered, motionless in the confines of its hell.

The dragonglass was dusted in frost, chilled by its presence. Flickering light from the torches on the wall beside accentuated the archmaester's rotund figure. His breath was heavy with port and he smelled of spice, fresh from the whore dens. If he felt even an ounce of Sam's fear, Marwyn hid it perfectly behind a reverberant chuckle.

"Rather good – isn't it..." he continued, stalking up to the bars. Marwyn tilted his head at the willowy creature. Starved of strength it was a rake of ice guarded by leather armour. The insignias pressed into the hide had been worn away while a deep cut ran diagonally across its torso from an ancient battle. "I've often thought about placing it inside one of the glass displays upstairs – brandishing it for the Seven Kingdoms to gasp at. That is what most seem to think history is for, casual entertainment. Let me assure you, the maesters do not keep Old Town's library for anything so trivial."

Sam slammed his eyes shut. His mind filled with the sound of a dead army marching through the snow. The rush of ice-logged air scratching over the rock where he'd hidden himself in a moment of desperate folly. Flesh pealed off one of their horses. When it breathed, the ivory ribs came apart and Sam saw through the corpse to the black mountains behind. He gasped. When he opened his eyes he found the Whitewalker centred in the cage, watching. Could it see inside his mind? Sam felt it in there... Unravelling his fears.

"They don't say much," the archmaester added. "I doubt mimicking our speech is possible with their form. A few times I've heard the sound of ice splitting apart. If you've ever stood near a glacier about to slide into the sea–"

"I have."

"–well, that's how they communicate, near as I can tell. I am certain they understand us. Guard your words."

"H-how long has it been here?" Sam's throat went dry. The words stuck, dragging their way into his mouth. He wanted to gag.

"Particularly here? Eleven years. I had it moved from the Hightower vaults. According to my old friend it has spent the better part of two centuries locked in the dark confines of that useless lump of rock. He got quite a shock when he found it hidden away down there, as you can imagine. Fell over – cut his leg real nasty. Poor old man. Ice monsters from the depths of nightmares are not the family heirloom most seek to inherit."

"But how did it get here?"

"Leyton wondered the same thing. It fuelled his obsession. Years of enquiry revealed papers of purchase by his great-grandfather from a trader in Qarth. The trail ends there but there were rumours in the East that it was captured near Asshai in the dawn days but alas, those aren't questions one can ask without attracting a great deal of unwanted attention." Marwyn had spent longer than he'd meant to filtering through the twisted sprawl of Asshai looking for answers. All he'd found in that stricken place were songs of death.

"No. I imagine not." The Whitewalker's eyes were the shade of a winter rose, rambling over The Wall. Its features were chiselled, sharp and pale. "They're all different..." Sam whispered.

Marwyn leaned a fraction closer. "Go on..."

"The one I saw, in the snow... It was- well taller. How can they be different?"

"Because they were once men." His voice trailed off into the darkness. "If ever proof was required that magic can be a curse, it stands before you."

"Magic is your life-"

"Look at it carefully," he insisted firmly. "See this creature for what it is – neither living nor dead."

Sam disagreed. They were a species. As he approached the bars he was captured by those clear eyes. There was life in them – a ferocity that only the farthest reaches of the North might know. The creases in its face could have been the folds of a mountain range, thrust out of the the ice. They wanted something from the living.

"My friend he – he stared at it for hours, looking into those eyes as you do now, sitting in the dark as though that would help unravel the mysteries of the dead. Madness lies that way. This thing in front of us is unknowable. The answers don't exist. I know. I've searched." He reached up, placing his hand reassuringly on Sam's shoulder. "What did you find in the snow, Tarly?" He carefully re-asked his question, hoping that the presence of death hovering a breath away might terrify him into honesty.

"Dragonglass..." Sam whispered. "An old cape – as I said. Whitewalkers..." Sam fell into distraction. "The men of the Night's Watch had a great many stories about them. Whispers passed on from the rangers that you try not to hear and if you hear them you make certain to forget soon as you can."

"And did you?"

"What?"

"Forget the stories?"

Sam shook his head. "When you're standing on that wall of ice looking North the stories are all you can think of. Those words never make it South. I used to believe the stories were spread about to scare us into bravery. I was very easy to scare."

"I can imagine."

"Not with stories, though. I was petrified of fighting. First day at The Watch I was so bad no one wanted spar with me. No bigger insult than that but my father beat them to it. He used to bring special masters of sword to Hornhill when I was young."

"A wise man he is not."

"None of them could save my lack of talent from disgrace. The day I left he made me stand in front of our family sword and told me all about the warriors in our family and how they'd carried the bloody thing from field to field, never touching it of course. They always had soldiers to do the killing for them." A Valyrian sword like Jon's. "Only one man in my house deserved that sword but being able to fight didn't keep him alive."

Sam leaned closer to the bars. He could hear it now – a soft, cracking sound in the air. A heavy snow bending forest pines. It made him second guess every forest whisper.

"That didn't matter, you know, when it came down to it – the fear, I mean. I killed a Whitewalker with one of those dragonglass fragments." Sam watched Marwyn's eyes darken with satisfaction and the creature shift. Finally, he's surprised the archmaester. "It shattered into a rain of snow under the blade. One moment it was an impenetrable tower of terror and an instant later it was gone. You could kill this one just as easy... We should."

Marwyn turned to face the Whitewalker. "You don't want to end up a pile of ice on the floor... Interesting. I wonder, do you fear death or simply avoid it to further your cause? What must it be like, abandoned on the field of war, left to endure forever in the dungeons of the enemy. Does the heat get to you? It's been a long summer... I can't say that I feel anything for you. If the records we have of the last war are correct, your kind, your magic very nearly brought about the end of the world. You are the night and we are the dawn..."

"We're nothing to it," Sam shook his head and walked away. "You've got to kill it, Marwyn."

"No."

"You're crazy keeping that thing locked up here. How do you know it's not sharing all of this with the others in the North?"

"From in this cell?"

"They're creatures of magic. Who knows what they can do. Maybe it whispers to the wind."

"It won't learn anything useful from down here," Marwyn replied darkly, "but we learn from it – every breath it draws gives us more than we knew yesterday. There's a war coming, Tarly. You know it. I know it." He paused, lingering one last time on the creature. "And it certainly knows. Come on."

Together they left the vaults and the building, emerging onto the streets of Old Town. It was another perfectly miserable day with a smear of drizzling rain hovering over the city, washed in from the ocean. Trapped under a bank of clouds, most of the light came from the Hightower. The poets called it a 'second sun' – they weren't wrong.

Marwyn was more comfortable in the bustling streets. He weaved through the crowds like a sea-snake until they found a quiet place near the docks where shrieking gulls gathered as company.

"I was hoping that you'd tell me," Marwyn admitted, when they were settled. "You're a passable liar, not a terrible one but I had one advantage you were unaware of."

Sam turned, trying to hold is nerve but it was difficult.

"I already knew what you found." Sam fidgeted under Marwyn's words. "You think it's dangerous having one of those creatures in a cell? That's nothing. Nothing at all compared to what you dragged out of the ice. You should have bloody buried it, you fool. No one was meant to find that. Not me. Not you. Certainly not them. Where is it now?"

"I-" Sam involuntarily shifted his gaze toward the room he shared with Gilly.

"Fuck the seven gods! You brought it here."

"Listen to me very carefully," Marwyn dropped his voice to a whisper. "You've got to bury that horn somewhere safe – somewhere outside temptation where it can slip away the aeons. It's a fail safe no one is meant to have. Don't tell me – I don't want to know. Just get rid of it."

The archmaester stood up. Sam reached out impulsively, grabbing onto his sleeve to stall him. "How can I trust you?"

"We're fighting on the same side, Tarly. I didn't waste my whole life in the study of magic to pull a few tricks in front of peasants. There's only one war. We're standing on the brink, tilting toward the abyss. I've looked into that void. Asshai is a ghost of the past and shadow of our future. We've nowhere to run. That's why I took you in."

Then he was gone – vanished into the sea of souls suffocating the city. Sam was left with the sound of waves crashing at the wall. Again. Again. Again... A continuous assault wearing away the rock until the inevitable crumble into the depths.


Gilly broke away from the tourist party as they circled the main balcony of the Hightower. She stopped, tilting her head all the way back until she caught a glimpse of the eternal flame burning at its top. The soft mist of rain stuck in her eyelashes until they coagulated into false tears.

She could feel the weight of the horn in her robes as she entered the building. Where better to hide a relic but in a vault full of them?


THE SHIVERING SEA

They walked the ship. Tyrion carried half a bottle of wine, pretending to stumble from rail to rail – lingering near a few barrels to take in the view of a storm raging along the distant coast. Varys remained beneath, moving within the hallways carrying a single lantern. That left Jorah brooding at the bow where the weather was at its worst. He couldn't risk arousing suspicion with armour or sword which left him with a hunting knife and dagger, clipped into his belt.

His eyes raided the shadows. There were anywhere between four and eight sailors on deck at any moment with another in the nest. He watched closely as they scampered against the rain, leaping over dancing ropes caught in the wind. They were trying to keep the sails steady, too much sheet and the ship listed in the storm – not enough and they stagnated in the waves and risked being thrown at its violence.

He felt the ship climb another wave then roll into the swell. The waters were black except for the occasional flare of light from the belly of the storm which picked out frothing crests of salt. That's when he noticed a deckhand rolling sails. It was nothing really. The young man had the proper weathered look about him and returned the standard calls of the other sailors with the same Eastern inflection but...

Jorah left his position and strolled a fraction closer. Yes. It was as Varys said. This sailor watched the others paying no mind to the storm. He'd glanced half a dozen times in Jorah's direction already.

Tyrion wasn't far. Jorah edged toward him while keeping one eye on the sailor. The sailor watched, looking up more frequently from his work. Jorah paused again, leaning over the rail for a while until the sailor's attention wandered. Tyrion noted Jorah's approach and helped until they met in front of an anchor. Tyrion wrapped his arm around the iron creation as though it were a lover.

"You make a convincing drunk..." Jorah growled at the air.

Tyrion took a swig from his bottle. "I am drunk."

That was probably true. "You see him?"

"Folding sails? Yeah. I see him." Tyrion slumped further. "Could be nothing."

"Faceless assassins are bad news," Jorah assured him. "Some of the men I fought beside encountered Faceless Men in Norvos. If you want something dead you won't find a better sword."

"What happened?"

"What do you think..." Jorah allowed that to linger. "They can't be reasoned with because their minds are poisoned by senseless ideology. Without humanity they've nothing to fear. No hesitating. Kill him if you can."

"That's me dead then," Tyrion hiccuped awkwardly. "A sizeable gull could pick me off."

"Tyrion, I want you to find Varys. Tell him what's up here. Go. Now."

Tyrion nodded – slapped Jorah roughly on the back and headed for the lower deck. Jorah kept his eyes on the sailor who dutifully focused on the cloth beneath his hands, folding it over and over but at the very last moment he broke cover to mark Tyrion's descent.

Jorah carefully slid his hand between his robes, feeling for the blade's hilt. He decided to approach the man. "Storm's getting worse." Jorah announced his presence, standing a few feet from the sailor. Only the lowest masts escaped the fog. They traversed from one edge of darkness to the other. Beyond those, a few swaying halos of light from the ship's lanterns.

"Yes. Yes storm bad." The sailor replied through a thick Ghiscari accent.

"Smoke?" Most of the men did.

"Not with rain," the man pointed at the sky. "Bad for weed. Burn not well. Later."

That answer proved nothing. Jorah sat down on a nearby barrel, waiting for Varys and Tyrion to emerge. As he waited, the weather settled. In response the crew naturally thinned to continue their card games. "Where are you from?"

"Meereen," the sailor replied.

"Before that, I mean."

"Ghaen. Slavers came. I grew up on sea. Then Meereen. Dragon queen came and now – sail."

He looked like a he was from Ghaen. Those were people of the old world – escaped from the deserts and built themselves and empire out of the sand itself only to have it melted in a storm of dragon fire. Not a natural breeding ground of loyalty for the queen but life in the hands of Meereenese slavers was fresher in the mind. History was such a mess of conflicting loyalty. How else could Jorah explain himself? A Northern man with a Southern queen. Perhaps he was just a sailor... Curiosity wasn't proof of guilt.

"How long until we reach the rest of the fleet?" Jorah asked.

"Three days," he replied. The cloth of the sail moved between his fingers with a mechanical finality. Every movement was perfect. The sea fogged thickened. As it swept across the deck. Their world condensed until it was only Jorah, the sailor and the sheet between his fingertips.

No. Something didn't settle with Jorah. Instinct had kept him alive this long. He wrapped his hand around the top of his dagger. The sailor started to whistle. His song slipped through the mist, haunting it with the mournful sound. To hesitate is death. Jorah was certain. He gripped his dagger. Slid it from its sheath. The sailor noticed. For the briefest second calloused fingers missed a fold. So they both knew.

"Arya!" Jorah and the sailor paused as the young girl emerged from the fog. "Go back below deck," Jorah continued firmly. "There's a storm out here."

The girl was already wet through. "I don't mind."

"Arya – now."

"You're out in it," she protested. Arya stopped when she locked eyes with the knight. He was trying to convey urgency with those pale shells. She looked to the sailor and in the flashes of storm light, caught the edge of a scar running under his chin, hooking at the top of his neck. The edge of a face. Her eyes lifted back to Jorah – afraid.

"Downstairs." Jorah repeated firmly.

"No..." she reached for Needle.

"Arya – do as I..." Jorah was cut short by rush of movement. Beneath him the sailor sprung to life, withdrawing a tapered weapon from his belt. He caught a glint of it against the rain before the blade came towards him, tilting just enough to slice between his ribs. Jorah arched instinctively, almost missing the knife. It cut through his shirt and a fraction of flesh.


Daenerys stumbled from the window. She gripped her torso, shifted, then removed her hand to find a curve of red bleeding from her dress. Puzzled, Daenerys unravelled the folds of fabric. There was a shallow tear in her stomach. She flinched as the pain caught up.


Jorah looked down but there was no mark on his skin to account for the smear of blood on his shirt. The sailor stood before him, knife in hand.

"So, you are one of them."

"One of whom?" The assassin dipped his head like an animal hunting. Those eyes were as sharp as his blade. "I am no one at all."

"Exactly." Jorah lunged. The assassin was fast but not enough to avoid Jorah entirely. His knife sank into the flesh on his shoulder and as soon as it was set, Jorah twisted it, carving out a tunnel of severed sinew. Arya circled them. Her tiny sword swirled in the mist with the elegance of a Water Dancer. Jorah's distraction cost him. The next thing he felt was the assassin's knife in his thigh, biting deep. Jorah howled, shoving the assassin off with all his strength.

Blades slid out of flesh. The assassin tripped over the girl and fell into the sail he'd been folding earlier. A silver coin slipped from his clothes and rolled across the deck. Arya had not struck yet. Her attention moved between the two men. The knight was coming in again, dragging a second weapon from his belt. He had the advantage and was driven by a furious determination. The choice was made for her. If Arya did nothing, they'd both die.

"Stop..." Arya levelled her sword under the assassin's chin before he could stand. The cold edge of the sword stilled him. Small but made to kill. The man beneath her blade look toward Arya and smiled.

"A girl has a lovely sword," he said, as Jorah's knives plunged into his chest. The assassin arched, choking on a rush of blood sweeping through his throat. It dribbled out the corner of his mouth, staining the edge of Needle.

Arya was struck silent by the words. It couldn't be him. Gentle rain fell on Needle. She watched the droplets form and run along its edge. Beneath, blood diluted into a pale smear on the sail.

Arya was pulled back by a slender pair of arms. Missandei held the girl while Tyrion and Varys gathered beside Jorah, late to the violence.

"All right?" Tyrion asked.

Jorah pressed his palm over the knife wound in his leg. It barely hurt. "Fine. What's he doing?"

Varys knelt beside the dying assassin. Terrible noises came out of him – gasps that didn't quite make it into breath. Death was horrific. Varys placed his hand over the man's face. The assassin's eyes watched. It was all he could do as his body shut down. As Varys dragged his hand downwards, the assassin's face tore off to reveal another laying beneath. Jorah and Tyrion were transfixed as the empty skin was discarded. Varys did it again, revealing face after face until the final breath ended and the magic failed.

"You see..." Varys whispered. "They are no one at all." The lifeless faces were piled up on the deck. He stepped away when the man was dead. "There'll be more after this," Varys warned. "Once a name is given to their god the owner of that name must die. Have rocks tied to his ankles then throw him over the side. Burn the faces."

The rest of the sailors hung from the perches, silent. Blood ran over the deck fading as rain replaced the mist. Jorah threw the assassin over the side while Tyrion watched – his bottle of wine abandoned. The imp couldn't stomach the thought of his senses numbed while faceless creatures hunted. The body parted the waters then closed instantly, as if the assassin had never existed. Now he truly was no one.

"How's your leg?" Tyrion asked.

Jorah had forgotten. He pulled the fabric aside but there was no wound. Twice now. He covered it quickly before Tyrion could see. "I'll live,"he replied.

"Typical bloody Northerner. Your arm could be hanging off before you noticed. Are you going to tell the queen?"


"Here, give me this..." Missandei tried to ease the sword from Arya's hold but it was like ice. "At least come out of the rain."

All Arya could do was watch as the rain cleaned the deck. "I like the rain," she insisted. Her heart raced inside her chest. All this time there'd been another one on board – another creature like her and she'd not even noticed. For a moment Arya thought it might be him. She'd panicked as the faces fell away, terrified that she would see his. It was a childish fear. She knew very well that the man who trained her did not own that face but the thought of seeing it lifeless in a pool of blood... Not even her nightmares took her there.

Arya gripped her sword. She had to remember why she was on this ship. It wasn't about going to Winterfell. For a brief period she'd allowed the fantasy of home to wash away her purpose.

"I like it too," Missandei interrupted the girl's thoughts. "But standing out in it all night might end your journey sooner than you think."

Arya slid Needle into its sheath. "As you like," she replied coldly. Obedience would better suit her cause.


She tore the material violently, ripping it into strips. Daenerys tipped a bottle of Dothraki alcohol over the bleeding wound on her thigh and bit back a moan. It was torture, exactly as she imagined fire felt curling back the skin. She took the bandage and wrapped it firmly over the wound. It bled through as fast as she could layer it.

Quaithe warned her there would be a price. The runes on Jorah's skin saved his life, now it appeared, they had done something more.

With the bleeding staunched Daenerys stopped and gripped the edge of her bed. She looked down at the bloody floor.

A knock at the door.

Daenerys gathered up the sheets on her bed and threw them onto the deck, soaking up the blood and alcohol.

'Your Grace...'

Jorah. She kicked the pile under the bed and tossed blankets over everything.

'It's urgent.'

"I'm coming." There was a dressing gown tossed in one corner. She retrieved it, tying the lavender robe around herself. It hid the bandage. The smell of alcohol lingered but with half the ship writing her off as a drunkard these past few days, it was of no matter. She crossed the room and opened the door. "News?"

Jorah lingered as he so often did. "There was an assassin on board the ship, posing as one of the sailors. He's dead. You are not surprised?"

"It is not exactly the first time someone has tried to kill me, Jorah. Were they acting alone?"

"We believe so. Paid by a rogue member of the Iron Bank. I think you might have ruffled a few feathers during you brief stay in Braavos."

"There'll be a lot more assassins waiting for me in Westeros, of that I am sure. Once news spreads of a coup they won't bother hiding in my ranks, they'll come right for us with armies." She could tell that he was distracted, probably by the stench of liquor. "I spilled it – in the storm."

"Of course," he replied, too quickly.

"Is everyone all right?"

"I – yes. We're fine. Why?"

Daenerys reached through the threshold, brushing her fingertips over his soaked shirt where there was a thin stain of blood that mimicked her wound.

"A scratch," Jorah assured her.

She thought about telling him then but knew that she couldn't. In her dreams she'd seen Jorah embroiled in battles that had no yet come to pass. If she told him he'd never partake for fear of hurting her. To tell him could change the future tide. It was too much to risk and she had no right to gamble with fate.

"I'm going to get some rest," she said quietly. "Could you ask Missandei to come by to braid my hair?"

Jorah thought nothing of the request. He bowed, murmured his 'good nights' and left.