SUNSPEAR – THE BROKEN ARM
Daenerys closed her eyes on the golden sun. Inside her mind she found the snow. It waited for her, tumbling silently through her waking hours, deepening until at last she returned. The North. This time a forest of ailing pines, girths the size of horses with their bubbled bark dusted in frost. Limbs brushed on limb. A constant whisper of ice above as she ventured deeper into a frozen ravine. A narrow stream cut through the black cliffs either side which shed a second snow of rock. During the Summer, melt water turned it into a rambling torrent, knocking boulders of dragon glass further into the forest. In Winter it froze and the dragon glass became black eyes shining from the silent sea.
Ahead – the steady chink of an axe. Barefoot, Daenerys picked her way along the river rocks until she came upon the largest pine. At the heart of the forest, the other trees withered in its presence. Its limbs were masts, its needles nothing but lush green sails shivering in the snow. Seated on one of the lower branches was a man wielding an axe. He struck at the trunk. Over and over. Carving out a honey coloured track where the exposed wood bled furiously.
He was making a face – a howling, bleeding effigy in the pine. In this vision, Dany cried out. 'You mustn't!' she shrieked, banging on the base of the tree. 'You mustn't make the face. Their eyes are everywhere!'
When she looked again the man held a bleeding sword. Sap from the pine dripped down the blade. He was young – a full beard that blended into his furs and a thick lather of hair to match but the eyes – those, clear eyes were like the blocks of ice drifting in the bay.
'Jorah...'
Then Daenerys looked down to her body to find herself drenched in viscous sap. It stuck to her clothes – wept into the snow where its amber inflamed to red. A hideous massacre on the ice.
"Beautiful, aren't they?"
The queen was shaken from the reverie by words wandering up behind. She gripped the rail, blinked back a tear and adjusted to the sun which was rising out of the Eastern waters as if it could not bear the day. From the great vault of rock leering over the bay, Daenerys could see the first bumps on the waves where the Stepstones flirted with The Narrow Sea. One had a lighthouse perched perilously on its cusp. Its revolving light flashed drunkenly at the shore, waiting to be snuffed.
"An army of ships," Prince Doran Martell continued, "their sails slack on the mast – waiting for war."
He referred to her fleet bobbing at the foot of the city, mingling with the Dornish trade ships which were edging out of the harbour, sunk low on their water lines with lemons. "Are you a poet or a prince?" Daenerys asked, as he came to a pause beside her.
Despite a tall, lean and handsome figure Doran leaned heavily on the brass rail. Walking this far was a danger to his health but then so was ruling a nation of knee-bending, oppressed, soulless nobles. "Both," he replied, letting the wind disturb his loose curls. "I hope one does not preclude the other."
"My advisers tell me that Dornish men are like this – a war in their heart between virtue and..."
"Lust," he pulled the word from the air between them. "That is Dorne." The prince was king among his men. "How else could a monstrosity like this prevail?" Doran turned slightly to gesture at the riddle of stone and dust masquerading as a city. "Love and death. Conquest and endurance. One half-swallowed shore where the molten rock left gaps in the sand." Indeed there were black stains further along the beach where some old fire had burned and died at the touch of a wave.
"Nymeria's towers rising out of the Dornish sprawl..." Dany added, understanding his meaning. "The world is littered with Rhoynish corpses. There are whole cities left to crumble in the forgotten reaches of Essos. Beauty did them no good. Beauty killed them. That ugly sprawl of dust beneath your prized towers is what keeps your city alive, Prince Doran. Why do you shake your head at me?"
"Because you are like my city – young and old. The last of your house and first of your name."
His words rattled Daenerys so she returned her attention to the harbour where her fleet knocked together. They were settled having arrived yesterday with fair winds. As promised, the Dornish had attended them with supplies and repairs. Many of her crew were already in the city while Tyrion and Varys held council in the palace. She had not seen them yet, having wandered directly from the sands to the arm of stone reaching over the water. Her dragons wandered along the sand flats, chasing the tide like huge sea-turtles. Even their hides had been turned gold in the rising sun.
"I am a man of peace, Your Grace," Doran addressed her without cynicism. She believed him. Everything about the prince was refreshingly genuine. He had played the game long enough to view it objectively.
"May I ask why you are gifting a dragon queen your army?" Dany could hear her dragons singing at the water. They were happy here, in the heat and salt. She wished that they could stay. War might be the end of them. Dany couldn't stand to think of what they might look like with their bones sticking out of the sand, washing away with the tide.
"We have never met," he began, using the sea breeze to build his strength. His body was broken in countless places, flooding him with pain as if he were burning from the inside. "Though I have thought of you often, these long years. You may not realise it yet while you are caught up in all your blood and fire but you, my child, were born for peace. The fire you set will reduce the corruption of the kingdom which has been left to fester – to ashes. Then your tides of blood will wash them away. When we are done, Westeros will be a very different creature."
Doran held out one of his hands to her.
"We are in agreement, then..." Daenerys said, before making any move toward his hand. "You and the other princes of Dorne – to support my claim to the Iron Throne?"
"United is a strong word for the Dornish, Your Grace. A glorified empire of desert tribes have never been united in anything save our staunch independence. That is the deal..." He repeated, wanting to hear the promise from her lips rather than those of her two pets presented yesterday. "Dorne will be free and at peace with the realm. Our laws and our princes."
"You'll not adopt the title of 'king'?" She asked curiously.
"A network of perceived equal princes is stronger than the pinnacle of absolute power. It is very easy to topple from the tip of a spear."
A quiet warning for her ears, the Queen thought to herself. Jorah had said the same. Wise or foolish men?She could not decide. "I thank you for you council and confirm the offers of my representatives. A free Dornish country in return for a crown."
They shook on it. His wrists pale like hers – scars from a life left indoors. He was conscious of it, tugging his sleeves down once they were finished. Beneath them, the Dothraki horses were being gathered into vast stables cut directly into a lump of rock which the city had naturally grown over. Their keening echoed through the bedrock like the ghosts of war. Every aspect of Dorne was stark – abrupt ranges, barriers of sand and an unforgiving sky. The sea caves beneath the city were no different. They gaped at the water like faces on the Weirwoods, howling into nowhere, watching the world.
"My son is brave to marry you," Doran added, now bent over the marble rail that ran the length of the stone walkway. "Do you sing?" Doran asked, plaintively. "Your brother, I remember he sang." There was a fondness to his words, as if Doran were reminiscing a painting.
In that moment Daenerys understood that Quentyn's plan was Doran's... He was the master orchestrator of them all. To this, Deanerys nodded simply at set her sights on the ships, then, when they had their fill of the waves and salt, she offered Prince Doran her arm and they strolled back toward the palace.
"I've not tried it," she confessed. "My dragons, they sing – I hear them now – birds on the wind. They sing for me, I think."
"Your knight sings." His addition startled Daenerys. "I remember when he was last in Dorne, many years ago now. He'd take a spot on the lower walls, watched the Northern waters and whispered strange songs to them with his heart in pieces. He's one of your birds, Your Grace. It's – not pity," he added, when Daenerys asked. "Except perhaps I pity myself for I've never loved enough to croon at the tides or lost enough to curse the moon and stars for their light. How can I be a true Dornish man if I've no claim to these things?"
"You must love something," she replied, lowering Doran into his chair. It was a strange contraption set on ornate wheels that his keepers pushed around, flashing gold and ruby flowers whenever it caught the sun.
He stared at the unruly tangle of city – its jagged peaks and crumbling edges. "Dorne," he replied. "I love Dorne. I think I was born to serve her. I like you, Queen Daenerys and I believe Westeros will be the better for your rule but know this, should you ever come for my city or her people I will have you thrown into the bay with the crabs and creatures of the dust."
"For my brother and his children, I will always send you back to Dorne to watch her waves and guard her sands."
Doran, taken by her words, reached up with his frail hand and took hers, clutching it with surprising strength. "You have your brother's eyes. Even his enemies were in love with him. When they raised their swords they always faltered at the shadow he cast in their hearts."
"Robert Baratheon did not falter."
"He did." Doran assured her. "That is why the hammer fell so hard upon Rhaegar's crown."
There were times when Daenerys dreamed of his rubies scattered through the stream, washing into nowhere.
The palace was split between two Rhoynish towers, each more decayed than the last. Jorah waited for Daenerys in one of the sprawling living areas gifted to them by the prince. It was sparse and circular, decorated in the centre with a tiled pool of water which seemed to be a feature of every room. Instead of placid reliefs the walls were adorned with images of snakes striking at prey, leering up with their spotted hoods erect. In their honour, one of the old Targaryen banners had been strung up across the wall. Its violent shades of red and black where laced with dust. Still, Daenerys found herself reaching forward to touch the heavy weave.
"You never said you'd been to Dorne, ser Jorah," Daenerys said, when she heard his familiar footfalls on the stone. She withdrew from the banner and her memories.
He waited until he was closer before replying. "I have been many places in this world. Dorne always felt like a dream. My mind was clouded with many things while I lived in the streets. I was never quite sure if it happened."
"Prince Doran remembers you."
"I doubt that will aid you in this plan," he replied sceptically. "Even if you can convince Prince Doran to lend me the sword, the Daynes may well refuse. Commands of a prince in this part of the world are more akin to honoured requests. You could not force their hand."
"You will have that sword. I have seen you hold it."
"Khaleesi, I am not sure I wish to give your visions strength. There are things in them you will not share. Prophecy is meaningless. In the end it comes down to what we do or don't do. That's all there is."
Daenerys broke the mood with a playful smirk and flash of her sharp eyes. "You will do as you are bid, ser..." To which he could only dip his head obediently. "Have Varys and Tyrion procured the document?"
"Indeed, they used their head start wisely. The Dayne's have their family tree on show in the House of Records. We commissioned a copy which they will bring. Now that you're existence is confirmed, you have a strong claim. This will be them coming now," he finished, at a knock on the door.
Maesters, if you could call them that, filed in led by Tyrion and Varys. They carried a chest containing the fresh parchment which was quickly extracted and unfurled over the marble floor in a carpet of ink and wax. Its commission and birth were in haste, evident in the smudges where it had been rolled prematurely. They used river stones to hold the edges down until finally the family tree of House Dayne lay before them.
"Gods..." Daenerys whispered. The stretch of history was breathtaking. Seeing it laid thus gave life to mythical figures and there, twisted with the names of Martell and Dayne; Targaryen...
"These, Your Grace, are the minders," Varys introduced three maesters wearing chains of pearl. "They ensure that sacred house is not tampered with."
Daenerys hoped they took more care of their parchment than themselves. Their faces were covered in brown tattoos and piercings which stretched their skin into strips. Their hair was tied back and plaited into braids that touched their waists while their hands were covered in snake-skin gloves. "And this," said Daenerys, "is the same as the original?"
"It is," Varys replied. "Tyrion and I stayed for its creation."
Which explained why they both looked pale and ill. Too much drink in Varys' case and not enough for Tyrion.
When Princes Doran and Quentyn were summoned they patiently listened to the dragon queen's unusual request.
"A few short hours ago, I thought the gods had smiled upon you," Doran was the first to speak. Varys and Tyrion shifted uneasily at the levity tainting his tone. It was not a promising sign. "Now I see that you are a true Targaryen, mad as ever and entirely delusional in your undying belief of self importance."
Daenerys was unperturbed. She'd heard worse rejections. "It is not that I desire the sword as an item of vanity... I do not collect trinkets to amuse myself. I have lived on nothing for too long to find value in such things."
"Then what does a queen want with a sword? You could not wield it."
"The sword is not for me." A long, drawn pause where Varys closed his eyes and Tyrion felt his hands sweat. "It is for the commander of my armies, Ser Mormont."
Doran's laughter flooded the room. He did not stop for quite some time, struggling with the sheer ludicrously. "A Northern knight? Your Grace, while I will freely admit to your own potential blood claim on the item, this man, honourable though he may be and a fine warrior by all accounts, he is not the Sword of the Morning."
"So you do admit the validity of my claim?"
"I – I do..." Doran frowned, feeling as if he'd somehow been trapped. "But there is a living Dayne with a stronger claim."
"Edric Dayne," Varys stepped forward carefully. The eyes of the room shifted to him. "A young boy, lost to the North years ago. Irony, Your Grace. The sword gathers dust at Starfall. The queen would of course return to the sword to its glass prison upon her death or at the conclusion of its use."
Doran sat in consideration with the only sound that of the parchment rustling in the wind, trying to break free of its stone weights. "The man who wields Dawn must be the greatest warrior in the land. Blood or no blood, even the Dayne's must prove themselves worthy before taking up the sword. Very few succeed. After the death of Arthur, the next best swordsmen was Ivos Yronwood. Here is my proposal to you, Queen Daenerys. If a warrior of your choice can better Ivos Yronwood in the old dragon pit, you may borrow Dawn with the strict condition that it will be returned upon the death of your victor. The title is forbidden. The contest ends with death alone. These are my conditions."
"Agreed," Daenerys said, before Doran had finished his last breath or Varys could protest.
"Ivos Yronwood is an exceptional swordsman, Daenerys..." Jorah cautioned, as the four of them sat in conference. "I've seen him in combat – exhibition matches in Dorne against Arthur. With a sword in each hand they could flatten armies."
"Even if you survive," Varys interrupted dryly, implying the truly vast chasm of doubt. "Winning will be problematic."
"Not for me..."
"For all of us. Yronwood is the second most powerful house in Dorne and the original rulers. They call themselves the 'Bloodroyals' because they ruled Dorne for more than a thousand years before Nymeria and her ships thrust the Martells onto the throne. They've been at each other's throats ever since. Politely."
"So at worst, Doran is using us to remove one of his rivals?" Tyrion asked.
"Even conceding to the fight might cause us issues. Yronwoods aren't the Queen's biggest supporters. They were on the wrong side of the Blackfyre rebellions and they guard the passages to Westeros. If we kill off their greatest warrior they'll close those passages on our heads and slaughter our armies before we reach Westeros."
"This is all assuming I live," Jorah clarified because he really felt that point needed attention. "Which is very unlikely."
Daenerys slid off her chair and strolled across the room to the squabbling men. Her hand brushed over Varys' chest, pushing him away gently so that she could hold the centre ground between them. "There were no rules placed upon the weapons we could use...?"
"No, Your Grace," Varys replied.
"And you still have that vile sword from the mountains near Asshai?"
"Yes, Your Grace," Jorah replied.
Besides, thought Daenerys to herself. It is not his life I risk but mine. Quaithe's blood magic would protect him.
Jorah had his doubts. Ivos was younger than him, a few inches taller – a few inches leaner and fresh from fighting in the Red Mountains. Of course, he would do whatever it was that she commanded but this felt like a potential disaster. She was risking Dornish civil war for the sake of a sword. She said she'd seen him holding it but there had to be more than that to tempt her into this nightmare.
He stepped into the sun. The arena of the dragon pit was nearly worn to rock. What little sand remaining had been washed to the edges where it clawed up the granite barriers keeping the crowd safe. The ruined structure brimmed with baying crowds. Half the city hung off its stone stairs, passing coin and carrying out business. It was all a game to them. A spectacle. To Jorah, it was probably the last half hour breathing the air for surely he'd be ash and dust before the day was out.
On that thought, he scanned the stadium in search of the royal box. He found it, perched above the sea of faces with golden curtains pulled back and tied to stone columns with red ribbons. The Martell and Yronwood sat side by side while his Queen and her advisers took the other end. He nodded at his Queen and she returned the gesture. She was so calm that Jorah almost tricked himself into believing he might live.
Ivos appeared from the opposing side of the arena. He was older than Jorah remembered – all the better for Ivos. He was broader with an unbreakable armour of muscle in every place the sun touched. The cheers became deafening as he began spinning his pair of swords for their entertainment. The blades danced in the harsh light, floating over his hands as though they were made of magic and feather. He could even hear their sharp edges cut through the hot wind that had found its way into the city.
Instead of parading himself about like some kind of theatre actor, Jorah stalked across the dirt. He finished in the shadow of the royal box where he extracted Snowflake, his foreign, frozen sword and knelt down on one knee to his queen.
In High Valyrian he announced, "I fight and die for your honour, oh glorious Queen."
It was the second time Tyrion had heard those words from the knight, uttered inside a fighting pit. This time, the Queen's countenance was quite different. Her steely face, which she nodded gently again, did nothing to hide the tremble in her hand.
"Have some faith in your visions," Tyrion whispered, coming to stand beside her as Jorah began the customary circuit of the arena to sate the crowds. "Mormont does not die in a Dornish dragon pit. His bones belong in the North."
"Even the greatest dreamers know that their visions are whispers," she replied, taking her seat. "If he dies..."
"He won't die," Tyrion, now level with her, he dared to stand in front of her. "He's too stubborn to die."
She'd be easier if Missandei were here but lately her time was devoted to the Stark girl. Daenerys assumed she was using Arya to hide from her grief. She and Grey Worm were closer than friends, impossible as the world saw them, it did not alter their love.
"Do you mind if I?" Tyrion gestured at the seat beside her. He took it and together they watched the knights circling each other. "See – there, along the walls. Scorch marks from the ancient times when dragons were kept here."
"You really do have a fondness for dragons," she observed.
"They are not so fond of me but I am fond of them," Tyrion admitted. "I'm in this for the dragons."
Finally, Daenerys managed a smile on his account. It was dampened by Varys who had transformed into a moveable water feature. He refused to change his attire and so sweated his way from one building to the next. This venture of the Queen's had him at wit's end. The last thing they needed was the commander of her armies fighting his better in a dragon pit with the potential to destroy the peace in their only major stable ally. Tyrion offered him a wooden fan he'd bought off a street vendor. He accepted, snapped it open and flapped it around irritably.
"I'm starting to think we should have stolen the sword instead. Odds are no one would have noticed it missing until after the war was done." Varys grimaced further when he saw the slither of ice that Mormont had chosen in place of a perfectly good sword.
"Too late for cold feet," Tyrion pointed out, as the gong went off.
Jorah and Ivos assembled in the centre. First, they bowed to each other and said the Dornish words. Then they stepped backwards three times in honour of the gods and finally lifted their swords.
Ivos had a pair – one for each hand. They spun again, one then the other, in sync with the cautious steps they took around each other. Jorah's single ice sword with its sad lashing of leather for a handle threatened to melt in the rising heat. He was waiting. Baiting Ivos. Letting the Dornishman draw first blood.
It wasn't long before Ivos took a chance, rearing up to Jorah. One sword went up, the other down, hunting out a follow through. Jorah lifted his sword to shoulder height to block the first strike. As soon as their blades touched Ivos' shattered into a storm of silver dust, raining down at their feet.
The crowd gasped at the sudden destruction.
Ivos' second sword, still in motion, clipped Jorah's arm beneath the elbow with a scratch he barely noticed. Jorah swung Snowflake back around and caught the second blade. It shattered as quickly as the first leaving Ivos unarmed with a knight bearing down on him. He raised his hands – in hope or fear. Jorah did not hesitate, thrusting the ice-blade directly through his neck, severing everything of note.
Ivos tipped backwards and collapsed as a bleeding wreck on the dirt.
Silence.
Utter shock.
Barely two minutes had passed and the old knight stood victor over a corpse, bowing again to his dragon queen.
Tyrion's eyes should have been on the pit but they had been drawn to Daenerys' arm. A thin tear of flesh was slowly dripping blood onto the ground. She'd winced, pretending to ignore it but it was as real as her blood.
CITADEL – OLD TOWN
"Gilly! By all the gods – what – are you – archmaester!" Sam was startled a second time as archmaester Marwyn followed Gilly into their tiny room and smashed the door closed, pulling across its rusted chains for all the good they'd do. Their stolen robes barely covered the blood and ash drenching their bodies along with lashings of salted rain.
Sam set little Sammy back into his crib as the rest of the locks were pulled across. Gilly took him by both hands.
"Sam!" she said. "You have to see!"
Marwyn set all the bags down on the stone except for a rug sack that, upon closer inspection, contained something that was moving. Gods, don't let it be snakes, Sam thought. Anything but snakes. He found himself pulled down to the ground where they all sat and then, very carefully, Marwyn untied the ropes around the neck of the back and peeled it away from the tiny creature within.
As a snout appeared, Sam felt panic and awe rise in the back of his throat. "That's a – that's a..." he struggled to speak.
"A dragon," Marwyn helped.
