SANTAGAR – THE BROKEN ARM

Daenerys draped off Quentyn's arm as though she were a jewel – a slither of diamond, shucked from a mythical ridge and inset with sapphire eyes which were fixed on the Dornish crowd.

Tales spread through the city of her scaled skin, a tail dragging from the hem of her dress and wings that folded back against her shoulders. The Dragon Queen. She deliberately embellished the common belief that she was part reptile with unnatural gestures, returning to the Western lands as a deity. There were no dragon banners hanging against village doors or tavern brawls in her honour but there were whispers. They were spread on the wings of ravens. As a Spider once said, 'there is power in a whisper'. It was palpable – like a mist gathering. Perhaps into a storm.

They entered the palace at Santagar in a formal parade with Daenerys stepping barefoot over a patterned runner laid down to conceal the customary dirt floors. A pair of stuffed leopards leered at the end, locked in silent howls before a small rise on which stood a meagre throne made of palm. The Prince of Santagar occupied it, drowning in his folds of embroidered orange silk. He was a young man, like his cousin with oval eyes drowned in charcoal and cinnamon skin which glistened with a powder made from crushed beetle wings. His hair was worn in the desert style – plaited in dozens of tight weaves with glass beads catching the torchlight. It was easy to see why Dorne was known as 'The Land of Princes'. There was one in every outpost.

Either side of him stood four guards. Enormous men, they carried seven foot spears coated in gold with snakes twisting up their lengths, each set with ruby eyes. In front of the Prince sat an assortment of young women and men in various states of undress with elaborate tattoos covering their flesh. They lounged over each other in ways designed to make foreigners blush.

Unfortunately for her host, Daenerys had spent most of her life in the company of Dothraki instead of the reserved courts of Westeros. As if to press the point, as she approached the throne, Daenerys undid the gold sash holding her dress together and left it to tumble to the floor. Her dress loosened, falling apart at the front to rival the most risqué of them.

Tyrion swallowed hard and averted his eyes from the Queen's breasts to the crowd fanning themselves with palm leaves. There were nearly a hundred cramped into the low hall whose ceiling bore down on them in a cave-like fashion.

Custom called for guests to kneel before the Prince but Daenerys did not. Instead she stood too close with her strangely coloured eyes mesmerising the Prince until finally it was he who rose to his feet in kind and they bowed together.

"Princess Daenerys Targaryen, I presume..."

It should have been Varys to step forward now but instead Jorah moved beside the queen with his pair of swords scraping together and faint traces of illegible writing covering his skin. He introduced Her Grace with full titles, particularly lingering on Queen of the Seven Kingdoms so that there could be no doubt to this Prince that she was his sovereign. So long as he drew breath, Jorah retained this honour. Besides, Daenerys often thought the words were laced with caution when they came from the mouth of a Northern warrior. Then there was the way he lingered at Khaleesi. The sound of it made a warm tingle run across her skin. She remembered how he'd whispered it. Murmured and uttered it into the wind. A thousand times. More. It was the last thing she heard in her dragon dreams.

"Yes well," the Prince waved the knight off to the side, "you are as beautiful as they said. Too beautiful for my cousin. In my experience, women like yourself soon tire of such things. He is pretty too be sure but his soldiering will chip the exterior before long."

"There are no woman such as me," Daenerys countered. "Payment, as promised."

She lifted her hand, stirring a troop of Unsullied. They dragged a crate up beside leaving nasty scratches in the earthen floor. Gold spilled. A coin that rolled too far was snapped up by the crowd. There was enough to rent his army and ensure safe passage to Sunspear where they could bargain with another prince.

"As good as your word. Forgive me for doubting. Most creatures with famous names are barren as the desert." A nod at his men whisked the payment away. "There are rooms in the palace for your company and the taverns in the village are open for any of your number. No violence or thievery." He added sternly. "This is a peaceful trading port whose people are not accustomed to..." he looked particularly at the savages. Dothraki she called them. He rather thought they had bred with horses and spirits of the East. As for the knight – he was a paradox with legs. A Northern knight with a Dragon Queen... The world must be at its end. "Cousin – a word in private if you will."

Quentyn whispered against Daenerys' ear before he joined the other prince. Together they left the main room and vanished into the sprawl of mud and straw. They had no intention of returning to the festivities now that the pleasantries were over.

With the royalty gone, the crowd spilled from their seats and surrounded Daenerys' party. Particularly, they leered at the Unsullied, fascinated by their dark skin and long limbs. Tyrion was forced to seek safety in Jorah's shadow when one particularly amorous man made a go at the buttons on his vest.

"Welcoming, aren't they?" Tyrion said, moderately afraid of their collective advances. Music started. Dancing followed. The hall became a writhing mess. In turn, the ambient heat rose until sweat dripped into the mud like rain.

"Evidently you've not been to Dorne." Was Jorah's reply, as he kept a watchful eye on the Queen. The crowd remained tentative around her – touching Daenerys' silver hair with reverence. One began to plait it in the Prince's style.

"And you have?" Tyrion replied, surprised.

"Many times though it is always the same. Drinking. Fucking. Smoking." A mirror of their current situation. "They are a land of pleasure. When the Dornish finally tire of peace everyone chooses a spear and makes war on whatever is closest. If you're looking for sense you've come to the wrong part of the kingdom."


Many hours later, Missandei ambled along the bank of the canal, keeping to the open stretches away from the reeds. Every now and then she heard the splash of a crocodile slide beneath the surface of the silken depths. She could very nearly feel their presence – shadows waiting out of sight to latch onto something living.

The curtain of stars was different in the South-West. She tilted her head, barely able to make out the prominent patterns from her home. One of them, the Lazy Lion, was turned on its side, scraping the horizon toward the sea. There were new stars as well, including a trio that circled each other and on the furthest Northern edge, the bleeding comet that had once graced the skies above Essos. Although it appeared fixed, each night it edged a fraction closer to the frozen lands.

Footsteps trampled the mud behind. Swift. Disciplined. Those of a soldier. When they drew close Missandei spun, startling her purser.

"Please – wait," Grey Worm stumbled slightly on the wet surface. He held a flaming torch aloft. A halo of insects followed in a plume, drawn to the light. Those that flew too close died with a flicker and burst of smoke. "It is not safe out here alone, in the dark."

"Safe?" Missandei replied in amusement. Her tone was careless, as was the way she flirted with the water, letting it brush her toes. "We ride to war and you lecture me on safety? How odd... Come three moons we will all find our homes under the dirt. I have no intention of cowering before Death."

His eyes fell to the mud at their feet. Somehow he had caused offence. It was inevitable. There were many customs beyond his reach – pleasantries that Unsullied failed to master, especially those regarding women.

"Grey Worm is sorry, if he has caused offence."

He did not know what to do but follow at her heels. They walked for a while with only the crackle of his torch to break the tension. Where the reeds thickened and edged in on the water, Missandei paused.

"You have not offended me," she assured him. "After months on the sea I wanted the feel of solid ground. Anything so long as it wasn't rocking underfoot. I can still feel it," she lifted her slender arm, tilting it like the thrum of a wave, "– the to and fro. I was collecting my thoughts when you found me. That is all." Her eyes were cast down, dodging the gaze of his naturally brown eyes.

Grey Worm accepted her words but he knew that those months on the sea had changed her forever. The small man has changed her, he added, in a rare moment of darkness. Was this jealousy? He was foolish to think there were any prospects with Missandei. How could there be? She was a great woman and he a half-man – not even that. The imp was half a man while he remained a soldier. His Common Tongue was good enough, perhaps she had lost interest in their lessons and in turn, him.

"Please, allow me to escort you back to the village." He offered. "We are quite far from it now."

"I'll walk a little while longer."

"I walk with you."

Missandei nodded. "If you like."

Silently the pair trailed along the banks with the glow of the village on their backs and the moon lifting in front. Grey Worm tried to think of something further to say but all his words caught at his throat and died with the rustle of the reeds. He was crippled by the thought of Missandei fading into memory.

Lately his mind wandered to the great battles to come. If, by some grace of the gods, he survived his share then what remained for him? If peace fell over the realm and the bloodied ground covered with dust, there was no point to him. He had no home or family to retire into. Unlike a sword, he could not be laid to rest in a forge or remade with the turn of fire. For the first time he grasped why so many hated his kind. His very existence represented war.

What of Missandei? He had thought, briefly, that they might find some kind of life together in the Queen's service. He could patrol as a guard while Missandei remained in her court, pacing the marble halls in beautiful gowns in the Westerosi style. She'd have rooms and house banners of her own. He would be content if all he did for the rest of his life was stand beside her door as a guard.

Those were foolish dreams.

Missandei would do as the women of the peaceful lands did – find a husband and a home, fill it with laughing children and live as he could not. For that reason, Grey Worm cherished these fearsome times.

He tossed his torch into the waters. Pale light replaced flame and together they moved deeper into the night.


"What do you think?" Tyrion half-hung from a window sill where a squat palm forced itself on the building with every breath of wind. The sharp foliage infringed upon him, scraping against his leg. He drank palm wine which stank and tasted sour on his lips. The fresh air helped keep the stupor of pending sleep at bay.

Varys had placed himself in the centre of the modest private room, hands in his sleeves as though he were afraid the dirt from the walls might brush off on his silk. This current existence flirted too close to his street-rat youth. "He's a shit."

Daenerys and Jorah occupied large cushions laid over the mats in place of chairs. They shared a look at Varys' tone. Lately he had an air of fear about his general person. It followed Varys like a cloud from room to room. Whatever he held back from her council, she would discover in good time. There had been a great deal of ravens from his rooms.

"There is no other way to say it." Varys defended. "Worse than I imagined him to be from our correspondence. That money we can scarce afford to part with walked out on long, toned legs. It might and believe me that I stress the word, buy us safe passage to Sunspear but I have serious reservations regarding the promise of his army. Prince Doran did try to warn me. I should have listened. Houses built on sand shift underfoot."

"On the other hand, Prince Quentyn disagrees with both you and Doran," Tyrion countered. "He makes assurances for his cousin's honour. Considering they grew up together I'm inclined to lean on his judgement. Besides, money works in this part of the world. The Dornish are traders and Santagar is a city built on reputation. When they slit our throats how will that look? If they plan to murder us, it'll be after the war in King's Landing – not before. You may sleep soundly in your web tonight."

If Varys was ever inclined to drink, now would be the time. He felt as though he were in the middle of a misstep – that he'd made a rare error in his usually infallible judgement. He started to pace again, ducking away as though a chasm appeared underfoot. The wars in the North weighed on his mind.

"Sit down before you wear a hole in the dirt floor," Tyrion sighed, calming drinking the vile liquid. He was either going to sleep like the dead or become one of them. "We have a huge army of our own and thousands of savage warriors scattered through the town. Only an idiot would seek to raise a hand against us. The Prince is many things – an idiot is not one of them. I can spot those – miles away."

"An army who are half-starved and plied with drink. I've seen worse odds."

Daenerys and Jorah sat between them observing the odd council of wits they'd dragged across the sea. This was the result of living in each other's pockets. They needed time apart before they irritated each other into death.

"Both of you – go to bed or take this discussion elsewhere," Daenerys commanded. "I am tired."

Varys turned tail and went willingly. It took longer for Tyrion to pry himself off the window sill and stumble across the room. Before he left, he swiped a fresh bottle of palm wine and bowed at the queen. He followed Varys, the pair of them determined to argue until dawn. Tyrion because he was bored. Varys because he was incapable of ignoring Tyrion.

"Their perpetual worrying is exhausting," Daenerys explained, when she and Jorah were alone. The lanterns burned low, smoking the room with scented oil. It helped to keep the gnats and river insects at bay but it was also suffocating. She watched the artful swirls of it catch on idle breezes and spiral off toward the window. The palm leaf scraped against the dry mud. Such an odd mix of wealth and poverty. She recognised the perfume from deep in her childhood memories.

"Imagine if they'd been with us in the Red Waste." Jorah replied, causing the Queen to stifle a laugh. There were times when he could still feel the burn on his skin from those months in the desert. He had been certain they would die there – turning to bone amid the weathered limestone caves and great swathes of red dirt.

"They'd never have made it by the headless riders and Varys would have taken exception to the ruling class of Qarth. He doesn't like a measure to his own wit."

"Wine?"

Daenerys sniffed the goblet and drew away, coughing. "Tyrion has a stomach of iron. I'd rather drink the sea."

"Or not at all." Jorah set the glass down on the ground. "This Prince will keep his word. All of them. Dorne has helped your cause since you were a child. We have the benefit of knowing what they want. A share of the Crown, as it was when Dragons ruled. Simplicity is the key to success in this part of the world. I saw the way you observed their culture – perhaps it lingers on the edge of slavery but whatever it stirs in you, I beg that you set those thoughts aside. We cannot give into the temptation to play politics in their city. The Dornish hate it. They've had the Kings of Westeros at their door for centuries. Every demand pushes them further into their own world. Like it or not, we need them at our side now."

"I know," Daenerys nodded in promise. Even if she came to rule Dorne, it would be in name only. They were a free province. "That's not what worries me." Despite the heat she felt a chill across her arms. "For a while now I've been dreaming of sand dunes. Not – those kinds of dreams," she quickly amended. "In my sleep there is always a single skull, half covered in sand. It lingers with a view of the sea then tumbles down, rolling over and over until it blows away as if it never was."

"Maybe it is only a dream," Jorah offered. "Those are mysteries to all of us. Meaningless wisps of thought held together."

Daenerys lay back on the cushions, staring at the ceiling. It too was made of mud. The lamps left halos of soot on the surface that almost became the eyes of skulls.

"That is what I tell myself," she replied, playing with the smooth material of her dress. She had forgot to replace her sash earlier. The dress hung open, revealed to the firelight, warm breeze and Jorah's gaze. He never lingered more than a moment, casting his eye to some other thing.


Arya abandoned her bed for the hallways of the strange Dornish palace. Her footsteps were silent in the dirt allowing her to move like a spirit from door to door. Snores warred in the night. The parties were done and only those that had paid for whores writhed and moaned with a stark slither of light around their doors. She sidestepped these intrusions into her world.

The imp's room was comically large. A joke, she imagined, at his expense. The bed was a waste for he had collapsed on the floor and lay there now, head resting on his arm with his fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle. She could smell the alcohol from the door. It made the ground sodden beneath his arm. All his lamps had died leaving the moon to slither in with its pale hue. It turned his golden hair silver.

She did this often.

Lingering above his helpless form with the Needle's blade poised to strike his flesh. She earned a surge of power from it. I could kill you, she'd think to herself, and no one would know. Only the gods and the edge of my sword. Sometimes she flirted death so fervently that her blade prodded Tyrion's cloak. Once, aboard the ship, a scratch was left across his neck.

Each time temptation rose, Arya pulled herself back. I cannot kill him. I need him. If Tyrion died the dragon might lose the war for King's Landing. Arya wanted the dragon to win, if only to see more Lannisters die. Cersei was on her list. Then, when that war was done, the Bear knight promised to take her North. Her name was in the North. A face for a faceless god. That god must have it.

She left the imp sleeping and climbed out his window, vaulting onto the flat roofs where she chased cats. Finally, when the night was thick, Arya fell asleep watching the moon and dreamed of wolves.


"What do you whisper?" Daenerys asked.

She and Jorah lay on the floor together. Neither had the will to move and, as the evening was so pleasant, they remained strewn over the pillows and silk. He had thought she was asleep and had taken to uttering old words.

"Nothing," he replied. "A song from Bear Island the fishermen ramble at the tide."

Rolling over, she placed one of her delicate hands on his chest. "Say them again..."

Jorah's voice rolled into a true Northern accent where the vowels lingered and one word spilled into the other, like successive waves upon the rocks.

"I wander upon a broken shore,

on iron bones and raven's eyes.

Milkglass are my winter moons,

rough her frosts the tide made raw.

Into the bay the great ice floes die,

under waves, songs from the runes

come with a rush of bone, of smoke and salt,

shell, rock, gold and tempered steel.

Then nothing cold can move to breathe.

A city fallen, stars brought to halt.

Blood stilled in a parchment's seal.

A broken shore, where black waters seethe."

Daenerys was certain that Darry – no, Jeor – she corrected, used to sing such things by the fire. "What is 'Milkglass'?"

"An odd occurrence," Jorah replied. "To some it looks similar to Valyrian Steel but it is darker. Milkglass is pale like smoke trapped in stone. Often it shines with flecks of silver. Impossible to make – it must be found. Traders strip it from mines in Yi Ti. Others pick it out of the Plains of the Jogos Nai. It lays on the ice around Bear Island and sometimes the Crows lag it back from their ranging to buy supplies. Here too," he half nodded at the window. "If you look carefully at the dunes tomorrow you might see pieces of it catch the sun."

"I feel like I've heard of it before."

"That is likely, Your Grace," Jorah replied. "All the noble children are taught the names of the Valyrian swords but one is actually made of Milkglass. They call it 'Dawn'. By all accounts it is the most beautiful of the set and far older than the rest. It is not truly a Valyrian sword at all. The Dornish house of Dayne have carried it in their family for ten thousand years." The edge of his lip turned into a smile. "If you believe in such things, legend goes that Milkglass is formed from the shattered heart of a fallen star that set the world on fire."

Her eyes fell closed. Yes, she had seen that sword. Night after night, coated in thick veils of blood. Dawn protruded from the ice, marking a grave. She knew that sword and now it had a name.

"I want to see it."

Jorah, who had also allowed himself to edge toward sleep, frowned. "That is not possible."


"Mormont – it's late. I'm tried. There is nowhere to sit and write and the glare of the moon is unbearable. Cuts straight through the window, you see? I could read by that wretched severed orb." Varys had changed into his plain black robes. The sight of him came off wrong. Varys without his grandeur was a palace without courtiers. Nevertheless, he crossed his arms and waited for an explanation out of the knight.

"The Queen has a request." Jorah carefully closed the door and stared at a patch on the floor, wondering how to proceed.

"Well, it cannot be all that bad," Varys attempted to pry the truth from him. Eventually Varys realised that the request was something dire. "You best go right ahead and say it."

"She has ordered me to steal the Dornish great-sword."

Varys swayed toward the open window, embedding his hand in the dirt to steady himself. He looked to the moon and shook his head, speaking to the night.

"You cannot steal Dawn," he whispered, "without setting a terrible curse upon your entire lineage and any fool stupid enough to help you. A thousand generations of Bears set to the slaughter..." He rounded on Jorah, who quite rightly had gone pale. "Mind you, with no sons or daughters to your name, perhaps you'd be fool enough to try. Even if you were, it cannot be done. What does she want with a sword when she has dragons? The damn thing is nearly as big as her. She could not wield it."

"She has seen it in her visions," Jorah lowered his voices, stepping right up to Varys until they were toe-to-toe. They rivalled each other for height and, had Varys ever cared for it, he'd have been fearsome in his own right. "Thrust in the snows up North."

Now it was Varys' turn to sicken. Fate was not a mistress to argue with. "Leave..." he eventually placed a hand on Mormont's chest. "And do not speak of this again. I will find you."

Jorah left and headed to his room. It was adjacent to the Queen on the inner side of the palace, lacking so much as a window. A few vents cut into the mud allowed the smoke from the lantern to leave. He unstrapped the pair of swords from his waist and laid them on the table beside. Ice lay with steel. Jorah knew that if they clashed too hard, the steel would quickly shatter. He'd been through two others that had met that fate, vanishing into dust.

Laying on the bed, he watched the shadows play until they became darkness and he fell into a restless sleep.

His dreams began afresh, vivid as the Winter sky.


THE GIFT – THE NORTH 280 AC

Dacey crawled out of the snow, pushing the powder aside as she struggled through its freezing depths, burdened by a sack. Its contents slid around, grinding and pulling her to the side with their weight. Eventually she stumbled on a protrusion of rock and landed, face against the freezing drift.

The world was white. The Gift, named 'curse' in jest, stretched from frozen forest to cliff-lined shore then into the East where an ice-bearing ocean rolled by the ruins of black fortresses, long since collapsed into the water. In front, winds kicked over the flat, collecting snow and sending it bolting over the ice until it tumbled into pellets that cut her face leaving her flesh lacerated. Once a lake, the waters beneath and all the dead entombed had paused when the Summer ended. Cracks littered the surface and in their hearts, an unusual blue that almost challenged the sky. She caught her glove in one of their sharp edges but the wound was old and the base of ice solid enough to walk over.

The mountains on her left had started to shrink, replaced by their Northern brothers which, though faint and pale, dwarfed them to the point she had mistook them for clouds. Above, a half moon wandered overhead, marauding in broad daylight as a pink curve.

Dacey screamed in frustration at the silence. Her voice vanished – sucked from the world.

Days passed and with them any remaining warmth. Shadowing the King's Road, she kept to the patches of forest that thrust out of the snow. These pines weren't like the ones on Bear Island. They were shorter, fat with age but stunted by the cold. Their bark was white with dark trails betraying the path of snow-squirrels who jumped about sending cascades of snow from above.

She must be close to The Wall. Dacey could feel its presence. The monument held sway over the land, affecting it in untold ways. Jorah used to say that it was the magic of the Children. With the hairs on her neck quivering, she believed him.

It was only when she crashed through the last bank of pines that she finally laid eyes on the monstrosity. Blue, like a wave suspended before the crest, The Wall reached toward the sky. It was so tall it almost became the sky. Mance said that he had scaled it with spikes and rope – more than once. If that was true then Free Folk truly were the keepers of the North.

The stench of Castle Black carried for miles. They burned their dead, piling them high on the outskirts of their castle, surrounding them with offcuts from the carpentry before setting the whole thing ablaze. The smoke never rose high enough to clear The Wall so instead it carried along the surface, creating a dark ridge near the top like a sickly band in the cross section of a felled tree.

Rangers jeered at her when she approached. Dacey silenced them by pulling side her fur to reveal the Mormont insignia. Then they bowed their heads and directed her toward the Lord Commander.

Jeor Mormont was a studious man, as at home with his books as he was wielding steel. He sat opposite the Old Targaryen whose blind eyes reflected the burning lanterns. He was drawn to its heat rather than the light, staring sightless into its flickering depths. Jeor often wondered if the blind saw things the rest could not beyond the haze of life's chaotic veneer. Or was it simply that fire ran in his blood? The kingdom had long forgotten that a Targaryen lingered at the edge of the world. He'd have made a fine king, Jeor thought. Even blind and old.

A knock at the door drew his attention. Maester Aemon stilled his withered tongue and turned toward the sound. "Peculiar thing," he rattled, "a woman at The Wall."

Aemon was correct. The door scratched across the groove in the floor, opening to reveal a woman dragging a sack half her size. It took a moment for his eyes to pry away the layers of fur and filth but there was no doubt.

"Dacey!" Jeor stood at once, pacing forward. He ushered her over to the fire, forcing her to sit until the first layer of ice fell away. It was an hour before she could speak, clutching warmed cider in shaking hands. His niece was a strong woman, built for the vast wastelands of ice and rock but her journey had wearied the strength right from the bone. "I did not think you were coming back..." He added, lowering his voice.

The old dragon, who could have heard a pine needle drop, listened from his perch at the Lord Commander's table.

"I swore that I would." The hot water burned her weathered lips. "There were – complications." A complication.

Jeor dragged his chair closer. Even inside, with the fires burning high, he wore a layer of fox fur. The nights were getting longer and the days ever more brief. The sun set behind The Wall early in the afternoon leaving Castle Black in prolonged twilight. A fresh batch of men from the realm trained outside his window, several stories below. Fewer than the last lot and a worse sort of man. There was a time when taking the Black held honour, now it was the retreat of men who feared the blade breathing on their neck. It was all the same to the ice. They'd have their souls and the good men too.

"You mean... they were actually there?"

"As the fisherwoman said," Dacey nodded. She dragged the bag across the floor and left it by his feet. Jeor unwound the top and peaked inside, startling at the three enormous orbs of patterned rock inside. Three perfect dragon eggs.

Jeor sat back, the fabric of the sack between his fingers. Each one could buy an army – three, perhaps a throne. It was more money than a Mormont had ever seen – more than their entire civilisation from the first felled tree to the Keep. There was a moment, however brief, that Jeor thought about bribing the debts his son owed. Even and honourable man like Ned Stark could not refuse such riches, then his boy could return – claim his crown and live.

"I did not find them alone," Dacey added, recovering her voice. The smoke from the fire did her good. "Mance Rayder was already within Winterfell's walls searching for the same thing and unlike us, he knew where to look. I got the feeling he'd been searching for some time. No..." She took another deep sip. "I did not steal these from him – or kill him. Uncle, I need to ask you to put aside the centuries of rage you hold against this man and listen to what he told me."

Dacey spoke of the Free Folk's plan to gift the dragon eggs to the Targaryens in King's Landing in the hope that they might hatch and return one day. There were terrible things gathering in the farthest corners of the Free Folk empire – slaughtered beasts were found butchered and re-formed, placed in demonic patterns within the forest. Sightings of pale men, seven foot tall with blue eyes were told by every tribe. Children were whisked into the night while their mothers screamed. There was no end. Even the Thenn cowered.

"Winter is coming," Dacey finally said. "The bloody Starks were right, after all these years but they had no idea what lingered in their crypt. Mance patrols The Wall because the North is closing in on his people, pressing them up against the boundary that separates them from the rest of the kingdom."

Jeor was alarmed. "Do you mean to say that there are forty-thousand Wildling murderers amassing at the foot of The Wall while we speak?" He could hold this position comfortably at Castle Black but if Mance and his army of violent thieves wandered in either direction they'd find empty monoliths guarding the ice. Any of those would fall if pushed.

"We – must stop them..."

"No..." Dacey reached across, taking his arm. "Uncle, you must listen."

"The child is right," Aemon said, shuffling closer to the fire. In his hands were the innards of an ancient book, its cover stripped and pages turned yellow from the light. This King Beyond The Wall had heard the Targaryen legend of dragon eggs smuggled North – by his own brother, Brynden Rivers. Lost to the wandering snow in the furthest reaches beyond The Wall, perhaps the two had met. "The eggs are real but we cannot hand them to a Targaryen. Aerys has the kingdom on a knife edge. When it falls into the abyss any relics will be sold across the seas and become lost to us."

"I brought them here for safe keeping," Dacey whispered.

"And where is the other one?" Aemon asked, opening the bag. "There were four eggs, not three."

Dacey looked away toward the fire. "Mance has it. He is taking it to Bear Island to bury in the snow where it will be safe. He calls it their last hope."

For a long time Aemon sat in his crooked chair. He ran his bony fingers along the crinkled pages. 'The Death of Dragons' was faintly visible, scrawled on one of the ruined sheets. "We will need the help of the Starks," he finally said. "Winter is on its way but not in my hour. We must make preparations and then lie in wait." Then, sadly, he turned to Jeor, placing a hand on the Lord Commander's shoulder. "You, my friend, may see the first of the last snows. It begins under your watch."

Dacey was the last to speak. "There's something else..." she whispered, eyes full of terror.


SANTAGAR – THE BROKEN ARM

"Have you searched the taverns?" Daenerys asked, the next morning when the party was preparing to return to the boats.

The Dothraki had mounted their horses and started on the dirt road toward Sunspear. A night of drinking and sex left them renewed. They sang as they followed the path between the dunes and the ocean, leaving a great stain of dust on the sky. The Prince's promised army joined them, flanking both sides with glaring banners with leopards and suns.

The Unsullied waited on board the ships. Their commander was missing.

"All of them, Your Grace," Jorah replied. He'd been out all morning, dragging whores from their beds – searching for Grey Worm. Sweat stained his face and shirt alike. "A merchant saw him head to the banks of the canal and nothing after that. I've walked it. Twice. All the way to the edge where it meets the sea."

"He's never late," Daenerys whispered, stepping closer to Jorah. Then added under her breath. "Never." Her stomach turned. If Grey Worm wasn't here then he wasn't coming. "You don't' think..."

"There are creatures in the water," he replied carefully.

"He's not a foolish man – why walk alone at night?"

Jorah had no answer. They both knew that Grey Worm was dead.