SUNSPEAR – THE BROKEN ARM
Ivos Yrongwood's corpse lay at Jorah's feet, twitching as noble blood ran through the dust in dark rivers, seeking out the iron grids set into the pit where it divided into three crimson fingers and dripped into the depths of the ancient city. Beneath, black stone passages carried it to the sea where the mouths of the Deep Ones lay open in feast. They used to feed dragons here, Jorah thought, casting his gaze around the pit. White claw marks mingled with long veneers of soot mostly on the lower wall. Dornish cities, like their arena, had nothing for a dragon to burn.
In the void left by the crowd's silence, sea-wind howled about the stands, picking up strips of shade cloth, flapping them sharply against their wooden holds. Two thousand pairs of eyes shifted to the royal box. Lord Anders Yronwood, Bloodroyal and Warden of the Stone Way, stood abruptly then turned on Prince Doran Martell. Soldiers steadied their hands near weapons as their masters clashed with words sharp as steel.
"What sorcery is this?" He spat at Doran, fury boiling his blood. He had been a knight himself and was still dangerous with a sword. "What blade can shatter Dorne's finest steel?"
"Ice," replied Doran, in his usual calm that incited pits of fire in Yronwood's stomach. "The Queen's knight is a man from the far North of Westeros, in sight of The Wall. There is a great deal of ice there, or so I hear. More so these coming months for there is Winter on the wind."
"The dragon bitch is no queen of mine and Northern men fight with steel like the rest of us." Lord Yronwood took another look at his dying kin who had finally stopped moving. A shadow passed over the knight as he knelt in the dust while the honours were read. Steadily, hushed murmurs circled the stands. "I refuse to honour your ridiculous pledge," he added. "Dawn belongs to the Kings of the Torrentine. You must think us fools to hand it over so easily to strangers. Unlike some, we value our history and her sacred oaths. We were here ten thousand years before you and we'll be here in when you fade back into the Narrow Sea and the serpents of the waves."
Doran forced himself to stand at the insult, facing Lord Yronwood – who found the display a demonstration of his weakness rather than strength. "The pledge was made on your honour."
"Fuck – my honour," Yronwood stammered. "You were the fool to believe it. Years we stood together in crumbling rooms and swore on honour 'til our lungs ran dry but in the end the only result was your politics and my subjugation. I have no interest in playing the pawn in your games with that pile of swords some men call a throne."
Tyrion took Daenerys' hand, canted onto his toes and whispered. "Come, my Queen, we should leave..."
She would not, instead walling Doran's other side. A silver vision, she wedged him in. "The pact – do you honour it?"
Doran nodded.
Outraged, Yronwood left the box with his entourage.
"For all the good it will do." Doran finished, when the last of Yronwood's men had left. "My forces do not hold the land beneath the mountains on anything but Yronwood's grace. If you want the sword, you will have to reach it before he can get word to his men. They must go by horse but you, my dear, have a pair of wings."
Jorah met the others in a stone holding cell beneath the pit whose iron bars had eroded back into the rock as orange stains. Like withered parchment, the walls whispered violence. Gathered nervously, they listened to the distant verse of clashing metal.
"That was a mistake..." Varys insisted, strutting wall to wall. There wasn't enough room for his irate pacing.
"Winning or fighting?" Jorah cocked his eyebrow. His armour barely had time to warm in the sun before the fight ended.
"Both!" Varys growled. "All this for a sword... Yronwood and his men will close the passage North to King's Landing leaving us royally – and I apologise for the unusually callous tone – fucked." Sweat waterfalled from his head. "Why is it so hot?!" He demanded of the walls.
"I believe we are merely a catalyst for their contest. Yronwood will come for Prince Doran first." Tyrion offered. "Perhaps even kill him. Their conflict has festered long before us. My father used to host wagers on their collapse when he was Hand of the King. I say we seize advantage of this tenuous peace, take our army and leave for Westeros while we still can."
"Too late for that," Varys said. "We need the Martells. If we abandon Doran and the old blood houses take command we'll lose Dorne as an ally. That we cannot afford. No one holds the Seven Kingdoms without the support of Dorne. The Queen has set our path – we will have to defend the Sunspear and Doran Martell from his enemies. Pray to whatever gods you prefer that our losses are small."
"At least we have two dragons..."
"Untrained dragons," Varys pointed out. "They are destructive I grant you but just as likely to level the city around us."
"Consider it practice," Tyrion replied, "before she lets them loose on King's Landing. Our old home is fragile compared to this hunk of rock. The Sunspear is made for siege war. It has never fallen. Defeating the Martells in their own home is near impossible."
Jorah laid Snowflake against the wall while he started to peal away his armour, wrestling with its clips that held his shoulder plates.
"No – stay as you are," the Queen announced as she entered, lacing up her gloves. "We'll leave at once to claim the sword."
"Your Grace," Varys protested, lifting his hands to reason with her. "We think it safest to stay here and defend the city."
"I agree. You will stay here and assist Doran. Jorah and I will seek the sword alone." Jorah's eyebrows soared in an, 'are we?' gesture. "If we delay, it'll be stolen away and hidden in the mountains where we'll never see it again. Ser Jorah..." She waited while he pried himself from the wall. "We'll take Drogon."
Drogon was the best trained of the dragons and the most likely to fly in the correct direction. Even so, Rhaegal called mournfully while the Dothraki helped affix the hand made harness to his brother, binding the straps around Drogon's ever expanding girth. Daenerys stood in front of the creature, gently running her hand over his snout. Every now and then he chirped while steam filtered from his nostrils. He was so beautifully warm, basking on the beach where he liked to lay with his belly in the cool tides.
"You're turn will come soon," she turned, murmuring to the impatient Rhaegal, who had craned in to sniff the harness on his brother's back.
"Ravens fly faster than dragons," Jorah warned the Queen, as he strode over the sand. Salt crashed against his boots while she was barefoot. She looked as she had on her wedding feast, the young princess beside her mount, silver hair caught in the wind and a pair of Targaryen eyes piercing through him like a blade. He'd been out of his depth then. Nothing had changed. Tied around her naked arm was a bloodied binding – probably another scratch from Drogon's spines. He'd noticed more of them of late.
With the saddle in place, the Dothraki backed away allowing Drogon to stretch his wings. He dipped them in the waves, sending showers of water into the air as he flapped them over and over, bringing life to the black leather. When he was settled, he tilted to the side, dipping down so that Daenerys and Jorah could scramble onto his back using the protrusions of bone to pull themselves up. Even on the ground, they were high up. Beneath, the Dothraki chanted war songs while their horses reared backwards in alarm.
Drogon was so engorged that it took the dragon a short run across the beach before his momentum was sufficient to left him from the ground. They circled out over the waves first, using the warm currents of air which navigated between Dorne and The Stepstones to climb until the Sunspear was a speck of rock caught at the front of the dunes. Then Drogon turned into the wind and headed South.
"Varys thought I was dead for sure," Jorah said, as the Queen laid back against him and their arms entangled. His full leather and steel armour was uncomfortable but she had not let him take it off.
"It is not the worst fighting pit I have set you in."
He laughed in reply, nodding. "Your Grace speaks truly and grateful as I am to be breathing the victory feels – empty."
"Because of the sword..."
"Magic won, not skill. In a fair fight Ivos would have bettered me."
"Ser, you do not know that." In Daenerys' mind, Jorah was the greatest warrior alive. He'd been her sword for so many years. When he was by her side she was safe. All the terrible things in her life had happened when he'd been sent away. "It is of no consequence," she continued. "War is not fair. If it takes magic to win then I shall use it. All that matters is that we stay alive. History will not care how."
"Look on the bright side..." Tyrion started.
"There's always a 'bright side' with you and it's exhausting," Varys complained. The pair of them watched Drogon's departure from the tip of the Sunspear – standing on the giant wedge of rock. "Go on then," he continued, "cheer me up or at least attempt to."
"We still have a dragon..."
A dragon which was, at present, hunting a pod of dolphins in the shallow sea. Every now and then Rhaegal emerged from the waves, tossing the poor, dying things before they ended in a gnash of jaws.
"A dragon we cannot control," Varys pointed out. "I'm curious, if war breaks out shortly – which it almost certainly will – how do you intend on commanding him to strike down our enemies?"
"Dragons are like wolves," Tyrion shrugged, wishing he were taller so that he could see over the marble rail. He was sure the view was stunning but all he could see was the sky and the occasional shadow of a dragon wing. "When we need them, they'll come to our aid and protect us. They're drawn to blood."
"Dragons are nothing like wolves."
STARFALL – DORNE 283 AC
After days following the Torrentine river through the meandering Red Mountains, Jeor Mormont finally caught his first glimpse of Starfall glittering in the centre of the river where the waters widened and mixed with the sea. He'd left Dacey's babe with one of the wealthy mountain forts where he'd be safe from the wars in Westeros. The boy, small for his age but good natured, clutched the hems of woman's skirt as Jeor rode back down the valley. He couldn't shake those sad eyes from his mind. It was for the best. What hope did that poor creature have in the North? A Wildling bastard was as good as dead. Here, he was just another child in need of a home. Besides, Bears were strong.
Jeor steeled himself and gave his horse a tap in the ribs with his boots. It was an eerie place. The Red Mountains were made of conquered sand dunes sprinkled with glistening milkglass and wild creations of crimson glass that traders dug out and sold to lords. The Baratheons in particular had a staggering piece in their reception at Storms End, seven foot high with twisted arms like the roots of a tree – or antlers of their beloved sigil. Pines and palms had been stitched together over the landscape where layers of ash and few water streams brought enough life to survive on. Even the animals had taken on a reddish hue in their fine fur.
From his elevated position, Jeor could see the famous bowl shape of Starfall. It had a feel of magic about it, prickling the hair on his back like walking along The Wall. Everyone had heard the stories of a star falling from the sky, dying in the dunes behind the island where the city now stood. The slaughter of a maiden. Bones of the moon. Isle of fire. It had many names. As Jeor looked around he knew the stories were true. He's seen the same bowls of rock in the ice beyond The Wall where fragments of milkglass dusted the calamity. Whatever happened here it had been repeated throughout the world before men had songs.
Jeor kept his horse quiet. The Dornishmen were in anguish over the brutal loss of their princess and her children. The North had declared for the new Baratheon king and any Southern man of honour was in his rights to lift a sword to a Northman. There was no choice. Eddard Stark had come this way after the slaughter at The Tower of Joy. The foolish man, bound in honour, had it in his mind to return the Dornish great sword.
Some might say that Jeor was equally foolish but he would not allow his son to lose his head over a woman. The selfish, vapid creature had twisted Jorah's heart and pulled him into desperation. The Starks owed the Mormonts. Surely he could stretch Eddard's honour to forgiveness – death to exile...
He could see the Palestone Sword – the oldest and finest of the towers striking out from Starfall. They cast shadows over the mix of sea and river below, poised at the place where the two bodies of water met and churned. The city glistened in the sun, made from rock shattered with pieces of glass.
When Jeor reached the edge of the Torrentine River he stabled his horse at a tavern and paid the ferryman for passage to the island city. The sun was at its highest as the boat pulled away from the shore and cut through the turn-tide. It was only now, when the waters cancelled each other and briefly became mirrors for the sun, that you could cross to the city without being ripped away by the current. Dozens of other craft did the same, racing toward the stone walls and harbour at the back of the city. Halfway across they passed a second fleet heading to the mainland. Jeor searched their faces for the Stark.
It was not until they were lashed to the pier inside Starfall that Jeor caught sight of the lord. Eddard was a large man, broad even under his grey cloak. Dornishmen were slender and tanned, brightly dressed as they filled the city. Not wishing to draw any undue attention, Jeor quietly followed Eddard out of the markets to the rock-way that clung to the water, leading to the historic towers where the sword was kept between owners. Ashara Dayne was rumoured to have locked herself in one of them, deep in prayer for her brother. Word had reached her of Prince Rhaegar's death but not her brother's... Those words would come with the sword.
"Wait!" Jeor finally shouted, when they were alone at the base of the tower with nothing but the sea wind and crash of waves.
Eddard stopped, pushing back the hood of his cloak. The young lord turned to the more senior Mormont with something that could be mistaken for guilt. He was a beaten man, desperately sad as he dipped his head. Another word might pull him down completely.
"You should not be here," Eddard warned. "You and I are at war with these people."
"One part of the kingdom is always at war with another," Jeor assured him. He was in so deep there was no further harm. Hiding Targaryens put him firmly on both sides of the conflict. Fucked from all angles. "You risk too much bringing that relic here," he added, nodding at the sword.
"I killed the man," Eddard replied, though it was a half-lie. "Honour demands I return the sword."
"Honour doesn't bring you here, young wolf..." Jeor saw straight through the beaten man. He was fraught with pitiable grief. "Love demands it and if it weren't for guilt you'd never risk your life so casually." For who in the North did not love Ashara Dayne? The silver-haired, purple-eyed vision who'd danced first with the elder Stark and then the brother. Jeor's thoughts were interrupted as Eddard spun to face him. Hidden under the Stark's cloak in his other arm was a new born child.
Jeor's first thought was that the child was Eddard's but it was impossible. He'd tracked him directly from The Tower of Joy where Lyanna's corpse was barely cold. Lyanna's child. That could only make it Rhaegar's too. The bastard crown prince in his uncle's arms.
"Ned – you idiot..." Jeor's tone changed, as he climbed the steps toward the young man. A child it was, raven haired with pits for eyes – more wolf than dragon.
"She begged me, Mormont. Begged me to take him. What else could I do?" Eddard looked down to the child, who seemed happy enough swaddled in the wool cloak, watching the world.
"You cannot keep him – if I can work it out, others will – quickly enough. Robert – Robert will know the moment he lays eyes on it. That thing is a Stark born."
"I'll say he's mine. A bastard of war."
"You – with more honour than sense – fathering a child to some tavern wench?"
"Exactly." Ironically, it was Robert who was most likely to believe the lie. His lust for whoring led him to the falsity that all men were bastards when a sword fell in their hand. "Why have you followed me? It's not for the sword."
"My son..." replied Jeor. "I come for my son's life."
"Is he not guilty of the crimes?"
"He is guilty," Jeor conceded. "But there is good left in him. Send Jorah to The Wall, my Lord, or banish him from the North. Anything but do not take his head."
This time it was pity that flickered over Ned's face. He had other children of his own, tiny creatures in the halls of Winterfell. "You love your son and I understand why you came but you know our laws. Jorah must die and I will hold the sword. I wish it were not so." He picked up something uneasy in the Bear's eyes. "Would you kill me then, to save your son?" With a babe in one arm he could not defend himself.
Jeor stared at his sworn Lord for a long time before replying honestly, "I'm not sure..."
Locked by impasse, Jeor climbed the steps of the tower to stand beside Ned. He eyed the slabs of wood forming its door. Faint etchings created a mirror to the night sky in the surface.
"Would you?" Ned whispered, passing the child to Jeor.
Targaryens had a fondness for Bears and immediately it curled into the soft cloaks. Jeor pulled the fabric up over the child to keep it warm while Ned prised open the door. Together, they climbed the spiralling steps, glimpsing the sea and city through the occasional slits in the stone. When they were almost at the top, the mountains aligned forming a great 'V' through which Old Town sprawled in the distance.
Thick drifts of scented smoke sank down the steps followed by murmured words. They found Ashara Dayne by a large window with the fierce wind at her face. Her slender figure gave way to the swollen curve of a sleeping child.
Eddard Stark was struck motionless by the sight. She lingered there, silver like the moon. The cracks in Ned's honour had haunting violet eyes and belonged to something older than the world.
Ashara watched as Ned unwrapped the milkglass sword and laid it inside its glass case. Tears cut rivers on her cheeks, heavy and wet where she felt the whole sea must live inside her.
"How?" Was all she asked, scraping her nails against the stone.
"Ash..." Ned replied, his voice that of a lover. "Come away from the window."
The child in Jeor's arms shifted, catching her attention. Half mad, she flew at Ned in a jealous rage. He caught her flailing arms and weathered her vicious words until finally, she collapsed against his chest in sobs. Ned kissed her silver hair. Then her cheek – finally her lips. Jeor looked away, taking the child to another of the windows while the pair whispered endearments to each other.
"Who killed him, Ned? Who..." Ashara wept, pressing into his chest. "Ned?" she repeated, stepping back from his arms when he did not reply. Her eyes shifted between Dawn and the Stark, moving like the sand dunes. Restless. Creeping to the truth. "Ned..."
"I did," he admitted, their fingertips the last to touch. Her tears ran afresh as he tried to explain. "My sister-"
Now she was shaking her head. Her tears hit the floor like rain on the desert. "Arthur was protecting her from the likes of you. You people from the North, you know nothing of love. Honour perhaps but that is to your famous swords and ancient lords. To the gods of the screaming trees. Rhaegar knew love. In all the hell and blood he cared nothing for the Iron Throne. Where is your sister now?"
Ned's eyes shared her tears except they hung in his lashes, refusing to fall like snow collecting in pines. "Dead."
"By your hand?" Ashara was at the window sill.
"No – of course not."
The child in Jeor's arms started to fuss and cry. Ashara noticed with horror that it was a Stark. "And the child?"
He ached to tell her the truth but he'd promised. More than that, he'd pledged on all his life. He'd tell the lie a thousand times but this is where it cut the sharpest. "The child is mine. His mother is no one."
In her fragile, desperate state, Ashara believed him. She clutched her belly where their child grew and climbed onto the low barrier of rock.
THE RED MOUNTAINS OUTSIDE STARFALL – THE BROKEN ARM
Jorah felt the shift in Drogon's flight. The dragon was tiring, drifting as he passed by the first of the Red Mountains. It was difficult to tell where the dunes became ranges – the trees crept on them every so quietly, starting as carpets of needleweed.
"He is landing, Khaleesi," Jorah said, taking hold of the leather straps.
Soon they were in amongst the red dirt. Daenerys, now dressed in her travelling clothes, sank almost to her knees in the soft ground. Jorah stooped to pull her out, setting her on the firmer ground where milkglass bound the dust into rock.
"We can't afford to delay here," she said, lifting her clothes to allow the sand to slide away. "Yronwood's ravens won't be resting and neither will his men."
"And a hungry dragon is not a creature you want to ride."
Drogon hunted the sand foxes until he found an unattended heard of goats picking through the weed. He returned to the pair of figures wandering on the sand. Sidling up behind them, Drogon nudged Jorah in the back with his snout. It was gentle enough not to toss the knight onto the ground. Daenerys laughed, grinning at the cheek of her dragon.
Jorah whistled in reply and Drogon obeyed, settling himself into the dune so that they could climb aboard.
"When did you teach him that?" She asked, as they took to the air again.
"I didn't," Jorah replied. "I whistle at my horse – Drogon learned the rest on his own."
"Have dragons always been like this..."
"You mean, did they always have souls?" Jorah asked. He thought back through the lessons of his maesters and the things he'd heard from Asshai. "I think there are wild dragons – creatures born of the mountains who have never known a human hand. Those are smart like the bear or the wolf. Then there are dragons raised in Valyria with something else in their blood that binds them to your kind. Who knows what happened in the golden era of Valyria. Their magic ran so deep into the earth that the world cracked apart."
"Aren't you worried that it might happen again?"
Jorah shook his head. "Magic like that is surely lost."
He is wrong, thought Daenerys. Magic like that was stirring in the ice.
"And there it is," Jorah lifted his arm, pointing at the gap between the mountains. The sea was a blue plate to their left with a single sapphire finger reaching into the land. "The Torrentine River and there, at the tip, Starfall."
"Odd place to build a city," she remarked. "In the middle of a river is no use for trade."
"It was built so long ago the reason is forgot. The ruins of the city – on which the new one is built – were found by the current inhabitants. Interestingly, the river cuts around the city. That might have come later as the seasons changed. Actually, the pair of towers are similar to the outskirts of Old Town."
"I thought this was the ancestral home of House Dayne?"
"Oh it is but the Daynes are not Dornish. They're a dying house who claim their history dates back into the time of gold and shadow. That might very well be true. My maester used to say that Westeros had a history lost beneath the popular legend of the First Men. There are dragon bones and crumbled ruins all over the continent which our written history can't explain. One thing is for certain, these things were not left by the Children of the Forest. The sword we seek to take is worth more to them than the empire itself. It's their tangible link to the forgotten – proof that something greater once existed."
"Like the pyramid at Old Ghis."
"If I help you take this sword, promise me Khaleesi, we will set it back to rest in Starfall."
"I promise..." Daenerys reached up, cupping his weathered face in her pale hand. "Do not worry. I never swear what I cannot keep."
"She looked like you," he finally whispered, placing his hand over hers. "Ashara Dayne. Barristan Selmy always said. She was the woman that tore his heart and left it matted in his chest. He spoke of her often when the wine and smoke dragged into the night. The Stark brothers followed suit and half the noble lords. Her brother, Arthur Dayne, was the last Sword of the Morning. I saw him fight and there has never been a better to him. When he died, she threw herself from that tower," Jorah pointed out the pillar of rock, "and was lost to the waves beneath. No one ever found her bones or laid them to rest. She is with the Drowned God now."
When Dany looked at the sea this time she found sadness in the crash of waves. Perhaps they were trying to tear down the towers and drag them below the waves. "Love is a curse," she whispered.
"Love is why we fight." He stopped himself there, realising he'd said too much. Honour was a lie.
Love is the death of kings, Illyrio had cautioned her. Daenerys remembered the trader's words while her own brother had no need of them for his heart was incapable of love for any other than himself. "Ser Arthur Dayne died at the Tower of Joy. My brother sent him there to guard his Stark prisoner." Another pause between them. "You don't believe those stories any more than I do."
"No one who saw Lyanna Stark with your brother at the tourney of Harrenhal believed Robert's lies. I think Robert told them to himself for the sake of his vanity. The Stark girl ran off with Rhaegar and Robert's jealousy started the war that changed your life. I'm not sure the mess done to the Houses of Westeros can ever be untangled. All I know is that the sword we seek has always protected your kind. I'd be honoured to hold it, though I am wholly unworthy. Will you ever share your dreams, Khaleesi?"
"I daren't tempt the gods."
While they flew through the Red Mountains, she wondered at the ancient dragons that made their graves in Westeros. Valyrians learned their dragon taming from somewhere though it was never spoken of among the priests. Who were the first dragon lords and did they come here before time was time? She closed her eyes and remembered the withered, melted structures in Asshai and the mountains behind, full of fire with clutches of eggs in the ash.
STARFALL – DORNE 283 AC
Jeor sat on the rocks at the base of the island beneath the tower while Ned searched in the tide line. He clawed feverishly over the rocks – sank into the warm sea and let each successive roll of water drag him deeper until Jeor feared he'd be taken.
"She's gone, Ned..." He called out.
Ned lay back against a large piece of fallen stone, waist deep in the foaming broth. Ashara's body had slipped away leaving him with nothing but the silence where she had stood in the window. He played it over in his mind and felt his chest tighten.
"Think of the boy," Jeor added, indicating Stark's nephew. "Without you, what hope has he? Come out of the water."
Together, they rode North. For many days they barely spoke. Jeor found a wet nurse who agreed to come with them on the promise of a home in Winterfell. She nursed the child, who Ned had taken to calling, 'Jon'.
"Exile, then..." Ned said, from the blue one morning. The dirt was starting to frost beneath their horses' hooves.
Jeor pulled up beside the Lord of Winterfell, checking that he had not misheard. "Exile, for my boy?"
"I cannot make it official but you have my word, I'll look the other way while he travels to the port and I'll delay the execution. Will a month be enough?" Jeor nodded in reply. "Tell him to take his woman and head to Braavos where there is plenty of work"
Jeor understood that the trade was for his silence.
STARFALL – DORNE
"In the end, they all loved Rhaegar," continued Jorah, as the afternoon sun shifted the colours of the world. "Elia Martell, Lyanna Stark, Jon Connington, Cersei Lannister..."
"Viserys said the war was my fault. If I'd been born earlier, Rhaegar would have loved me instead."
That was something Jorah could imagine Viserys saying. He was a fool of a boy. "Khaleesi, you were born to be the mother of dragons, not a prince's queen."
Drogon started to circle the island, slowly descending. A few curious gulls drifted off to the side of them, calling at the strange, black bird. "Sometimes I see him in my dreams." Was she living his life, reborn? Is that why she was drawn to the North? Or was it just that fire sought ice, flirting with destruction like moths around the flame... "Starfall is pink."
"Ay, in this light."
Starfall filled with screams as the dragon came to land upon tumble of rocks near the waterline, beneath the walls. There were stairs leading back up to the tower cut into the side used by fishermen. Drogon stretched out his wing, allowing Daenerys and Jorah to climb onto the maze of boulders covered in dried kelp, bone and shell. Jorah went first, pulling his queen over the larger rocks, holding her until the occasional wave passed. By the time they'd reached the steps this side of the island was silent.
They emerged at the top, cold and thick with crusted salt. To their right the rock-way curved around toward the main city but on their left were the pair of mournful towers leaning toward the tide. The closest one – the oldest – housed the sword.
As they approached, Jorah reached behind and drew his ice sword – steadying it in front. The foot of the tower was littered with freshly fallen corpses. A dozen Martell bannermen lay broken in pools of blood. The last reached up to his throat but the flesh was a clean slice of sinew and vein.
Ravens were faster than dragons.
