THE SUNSPEAR - DORNE

"Bloody hell... There's a hoard of short-arse mountain-folk at the gates. That, coming from me..." Tyrion added, sliding off the window sill. Perching on them was a habit made necessary by the unusual statue of the Martells and in turn, their architecture. Grand and sufficiently emblazoned with wealth enough to please even a Lannister, it left Tyrion at a permanent disadvantage.

He claimed the final item of armour from the table and strapped it into place, tightening the belts to stop the steel knocking together. To this he armed himself with an assortment of daggers, concealing them in the folds. Tyrion and war were well acquainted. Familiarity did nothing to stop the pace of his heart. He considered Doran's gift of a golden spear – picking it up if only so he could slide his palms across its perfect figure. Reverently, he returned it to the table.

"Are you honestly going to stand there brooding by the fire?" Tyrion continued, as silence persisted. "Varys?" He turned to the other man. "End of the world swiftly approaching..."

Unable to elicit a response, Tyrion tossed a handful of spiced salt into the fire, making it flare dramatically with a mirage of fleeting colour. Varys startled into life, stepping away from the dancing embers.

"We have to go. The war has begun. Gods above," Tyrion exclaimed, "are you drinking?"

Amazed, Tyrion pried the empty cup from Varys' hand.

"Drunken debauchery is my role," he assured the eunuch, disappointed to find the cup dry. He left it to one side. He was worried about Varys. The man was mistrustful of all forms of fortune. Either the gods were mocking him or cursing him. He wondered what those flames whispered to cause such thoughts to fester in a meticulously rational mind. "Varys, we've seen worse than this."

"Have we?" Varys finally croaked out a reply, destitute in his thoughts.

Tyrion's head tilted back in amusement. "Gods, yes! Meereen."

The arch of his eyebrow forced him to submit. "Meereen..." Varys agreed. Bolstered with a delusional breed of hope, he waved away one of Tyrion's pre-offered daggers. "I have my own."

Of course he did... Tyrion sized up the Spider. "Shall we? It would be poor manners indeed if we were late for a war we started."

"I still cannot decide."

"On what?" Tyrion lingered, one hand on the door.

The wine in his blood made Varys reflect on what lay ahead. "If this this is the moment that our children's children will sing about or if the last Targaryen conquest of Westeros is about to end in a most inexplicable and embarrassing footnote."

"...my children, perhaps. Children's children." He corrected himself.

"Pardon?"

"I wouldn't worry, Varys, you're not going to have any grandchildren to disappoint. Go on, crack a smile. I don't want to die next to anything except brevity. The Mountain Tribes of The Vale. Now there was an arym worth fighting with."

For all his insight there were times when Varys truly struggled to pick fact from fiction where Tyrion was concerned.

On their way to meet Prince Doran they passed rows of Dornish soldiers. Scattered through the palace, even Tyrion had to admit that their beauty and ferocity fought in equal measure. He watched as their freshly oiled tanned skin glistened in the firelight. Each warrior carried a gold-plated shield inlaid with snake motifs that matched their individual spears. Tears of Lys, Tyrion noted, dripping from the tips.

The Queen's armies were assembling outside, exceeding their host city in number. This war was mostly their fault so Tyrion made sure that there was no cause for resentment in the ranks. Without Martell protection, they were destined to be another set of heads on spikes. He need not have worried. The Dornish were spoiling for a fight and loved the dragon queen for bringing it right to their door.

"Princes Doran, Quentyn..." Tyrion bowed to each as they entered the war room.

Doran occupied his wheeled-chair, resting his arm calmly on the table where a board had been set up to track the progress of battle. Quentyn was preparing to leave and join his army. The young prince wore barely anything compared to the guards. His chest was waxed and drenched in scented oil which made his tattoos come alive. They were extensive, covering his body like a garnish. A few good hours in the desert sun and Rhaegal might just make a meal of him.

A wide belt of pearl leather inset with sapphires was the closest item he could compare to armour. Tyrion didn't know if was stupid to enter battle unprotected or brilliant to rile up his men with this show of confidence.

"Are you ready for war, gentlemen?" Doran asked, gesturing to the table where all the pieces had been laid out. There was even a pair of dusty dragon figurines that someone had found in the bottom of a box. One silver, the other black.

Tyrion eyed the board with suspicion. He was yet to take part in a war where the bloodshed remained within such neat confines. "I'll have to be. Yronwood's men are flanking your Western edge, deliberately leaving the North-Eastern exits of the city unchallenged."

"Common. He hopes our people will flee and force open the gates."

"...and, they won't?"

Quentyn stepped forward. "If they attempt to flee, they die." By his hand, no doubt. "That is our way."

This is going to be a blood bath, Tyrion thought quietly. "The dragon is circling curiously over the approaching army but as yet, Rhaegal hasn't displayed any aggressive behaviour. It's never attacked anything that wasn't food without the queen's command."

A battle horn boomed through the air. Bells rang on every clock tower. Finally, the gong inside the palace was struck three times. Varys' eyes closed. He despised the sound of bells.

"I have somewhere else to be. Uncle." Quentyn knelt before his prince, reciting an old Dornish saying before he left to join his men.

"My nephew is a keen soldier," Doran said fondly, once Quentyn was out of sight. "It's always the strong that die. Men like me survive. This, I think, amuses the gods."

"I couldn't agree with you more. A cripple, an imp and a eunuch – think how much fun the theatres will have when this tale is done. It'll be fodder for every whorehouse from here to MolesTown." Tyrion wandered over to the war table to examine the battle. "The main gates will fall. You've structured the streets to guide Yronwood's men along here and here. Why? It's as if you want him to reach the palace."

"You'll have to trust me, Lord Tyrion. Your queen may have led us to this war but I intend to finish it."


Quentyn strode through the streets. They were lined by his soldiers – their armour glistening as the sun lifted out of the sea. The cool of night began to burn away and the last sea-mists pulled back into the ocean. Above, the shadow of the queen's dragon wandered aimlessly.

In front stood the grandest of the city's doors. Nearly as high as the wall itself, it was held closed by a series of iron bars and hard wood planks that had seen many hoards.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

The steady crush of Yronwood's battering ram beat against the other side. Quentyn watched the bolts tremble. Every now and then, one dislodged and fell into the dust. The Martells fought their wars from street to street – never in the open. The Dothraki and Unsullied struggled with this and so were concentrated in the open areas where they might fight to deadliest effect. The horselords mounted their beasts, ready to rage up and down the alleys.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Quentyn mounted his horse and withdrew a pair of huge scimitars. He wielded them at the same time, spinning them playfully in front of his men until they catcalled and cheered, hammering their shields. He loved this. Lived for it. What was life if not a dance with death? This one had a rhythm that made the dust shiver. Wake the gods. Let them see.

He whistled back at his men and tugged the reigns of his horse tight, rearing the beast onto its back legs.


It was impossible to push the city doors inwards as they were set into depressions of stone locked to the Sunspear. Instead, once the hinges were loose, Yronwood had men scale the outside and hammer metal hooks directly into the wood. Below, men by their hundreds heaved against the ropes – pulling the door away from the wall. It held out for hours – resisting their attempts to burn or smash their way through.

Finally – with a dying gasp, the last piece of ironwood buckled and the colossal door surged backwards, slanting away from the wall. For one fragile moment it balanced on its own, held as if by magic. The Yronwood army dropped their ropes in panic and fled perpendicular to the falling door, chased by its shadow.

The door crashed into the sand with a boom that shook the city. A cloud of dust covered everything, suffocating Yronwood's army. In the chaos, Quentyn's men unleashed a hail of poisoned arrows. Many fell pointlessly into the dust but enough found their mark to fill the air with screams.


"What's happening?" Daenerys asked, keeping her eyes on the city as she and Jorah struggled back up the dune to retrieve Dawn. The sword had been left where it fell and was now glittering like a jewel near the top. They were almost there.

"The city is breached," Jorah replied. The sand was loose. With every step they sank to their knees. It saved their life in the fall but threatened to kill them now with exhaustion. "This is how the Dornish fight. They like close quarters. It is why neither the Targaryens nor the Westerosi kingdoms ever claimed their crown." Jorah heaved his limbs out of the sand, forcing himself forward. He could see the milkglass blade ahead.

"Rhaegal could burn them all but he won't..." she watched helplessly as her child shadowed the city.

Jorah plucked Dawn from the dune. "How could he possibly know to attack the army?" Jorah asked. "He's never been in war before. If you want him to fight, he must be taught." He slid the sword safely away next to Snowflake. "Khaleesi?"

The queen was praying with her hands lifted toward the city. Drogon, who had been looking for somewhere to land ever since they'd fallen from his back, was drawn down from the sky. Tentatively the dragon touched the shifting sands, using his tail to anchor his body as he landed in front of Daenerys. Tides of loose sand fell away from his feet. Beneath, it was a deeper shade of red.

Jorah watched, mesmerised. "Your skill at calling him as improved greatly."

Daenerys used the horns on Drogon's head to haul herself onto his neck before sliding to her usual perch between his shoulder blades. Jorah went to follow, moving down the dune toward the dragon when he was hit in the face with a wall of sand flicked up by Drogon's tail. He fell backwards, landing on the dune as the dragon flapped its wings sharply and lifted off the ground. Tears ran from his eyes to combat the grit. He wiped them away with what was left of his sleeve.

"Drogon!" He bellowed at the dragon. It ignored him, lifting higher. Jorah caught sight of the queen. Her eyes were cold with determination, set like stones in their resolve. He knew then what she intended. "No!" Jorah shouted, stumbling forward. "Khaleesi!" He tripped and fell, rolling several times before landing on his back. Jorah threw his body onto his knees bellowing, "Khaleesi!"

The dragon veered calmly and turned toward the Sunspear.

His queen did not look back, leaving Jorah screaming her name to the desert.


The Dothraki raved madly as they rode in a stampede from street to street. Their curved swords took head after head from Yronwood's men (and a few of Martell's in the fray). They swung them around by their hair, parading the bloodied trophies which some had tied to their horses. Their war chants haunted the ancient walls of the Sunspear until even the Martell army avoided meeting them in the alleyways.

The theatrics of the initial surge died away. Yronwood's men were slowed by tiny battles that ravaged every street. In close quarters, their strength in number was cut down as quickly as their men. Entire passageways were cut off by stoic walls of Unsullied fighters which did not flinch in the face of death. They held their ground, killing any that tried to pass and no Yronwood man could bypass their wall of steel. The result was a river of carnage tracking toward the palace.

Lord Yronwood himself entered the city, flanked by his best soldiers. Their role as eternal guardians had filled them with a false sense of power. Now, faced with the fury of a defending force, they were learning the harsh reality of the aggressor. Taking a city and defending a mountain pass were different beasts. Yronwood thought of Prince Doran, nesting safely in his web above the city. His tower was visible from every street. Oh... How he dreamed of tossing the cripple from his perch...


Black Scale, the new commander of the Unsullied, crossed the deck of his ship. Earlier, he had commanded all the queen's vessels to pull away from the harbour into the safety of the bay where they glistened on the still waters. If Yronwood's men had ships, he could not see them. The only ship left in port was Black Scale's – kept as a last hope in case the queen's army was forced to flee.

The rest of the ships turned with the wind toward the South, leaving their gun holes facing the beach. Black Scale ordered the amber flag raised. He watched the frail piece of material catch in the light breeze as it was dragged into the air. As soon as it reached the top he felt the whir of canon fire whip past his ship before striking the remaining number of Yronwood's army left outside the city wall. Each shot was accompanied by a boom, like clasps of thunder before a storm. It echoed in the timber beneath his feet. Again and again. The same sound that haunted his nightmares from the day he was snatched out of his home.


Jorah watched flashes appear on the water and accompanying clouds of dust where the canons struck. Their booms thundered cross the dunes, shaking sand free. His legs collapsed beneath him as he watched Daenerys ride her dragon toward the city besieged by war.

Truly, she was a Targaryen now.


Cubes of flesh bounced off the Sunspear's outer walls. Yronwood's men were being chopped apart by canon fire from the dragon queen's fleet. A general screamed at the men, ordering them to push into the city and take shelter behind the walls. The ships would not fire on the Dornish city except in accident. Several times a stray shot embedded in the city walls, tearing holes through the dirt and stone. Men cried out, ducking away from the falling bricks.


The Dornish people sank into the pits and tunnels below the city. Their warrens ran for miles, littered with traps and stores of food that had kept them alive during the last great sieges. In silence, they sat in the lamplight with the ground shaking above.

Missandei had been sent to the catacombs along with the wolf girl. The Northern girl ran off immediately and vanished into the crowds. "Arya!" She called, ducking between the bodies. "Arya!" Sand bags were lifted over her head and shoved into the cavity to shore up the wall. "Arya!" Missandei crouched so that she could look through the maze of legs. There – the Stark girl darting toward the tunnels.

She followed, pushing her way through the Dornish shoulder first. By the time she reached the passage Arya was long gone. "Where does this lead?" She asked one of the locals in their native language.

"To the city streets."

To the heart of violence. Missandei had no choice but to follow.


Missandei left before the killing began. Assassins were common in Dorne, working for as many masters as there were stars. In the enclosed space of the underground vaults they began to panic. The first to draw blood did so quietly, slicing their victim's throat in the shadows before laying the body out of sight. It did not remain this way for long. Women killed women, lunging at their prey across the room until a general rage of fighting broke out. The locals of the Sunspear outnumbered the violent foreigners by a great number but the panic killed as many as it saved.

The room became a mob. By the end, anyone who wasn't a Dornishman met their gods. This was their way. Safety in violence.


Arya surfaced onto the streets in an abandoned courtyard. The remnants of a market flapped in the wind while a nearby clash of spears told her that the fighting was swiftly approaching. She hoisted herself out from the tunnel and did her best to hide the entrance. Brushing dust off her hands, she scampered over to the safety of a supporting wall and listened carefully.

A murderous war cry, almost inhuman in its malevolence, was accompanied by a rush of hooves. She inched toward an archway. Those horses appeared from nowhere, sweeping along between the buildings in a storm of sand. The Dothraki left the severed heads of their enemies rolling on the street behind, dropped or tossed aside. One rolled through the archway where she hid. Its glass eyes stared into nothing. All Arya saw was a mask.

Arya turned. She heard a disturbance from the tunnel. Fearing that someone had followed, she moved from the square. There had to be a way out of this city, she thought. A way to leave and head North while no one was looking for her. Arya knew exactly why the dragon queen and her Lannister lord had decided to keep her safe. She was their pawn. A bargaining chip for some future war. Now was her time to head Doran's words and run.


Yronwood's men cornered a small group of horselords. Their horses panicked in the enclosed space. The beasts whinnied, kicking the walls with their hooves. Slamming their bodies against the stone. Crushing the legs of their riders into the Sunspear's unforgiving fascade.

"Now!" Yronwood bellowed, pointing his sword toward the Dothraki.

A hail of spears ripped either side and plunged into beast and man alike. Those that refused to fall were pulled down and torn open until man and horse became the same pile of flesh. Yronwood's men cheered. Too soon. A company of Unsullied approached from the other street. It took all their speed to flee. Yronwood made it to the next street and found shelter behind bags of grain but most of his men were cut down and joined the horselords in the next life.

This day, the gods were gifted with many new souls. It was a feast.


Varys preferred to follow the progress of the war by staring out the window rather than hovering by the board. He always found it better to respond to reality rather than someone else's interpretation of it.

Doran waited as the pieces were moved by his generals and their runners. Each time they entered the room they were covered in fresh coats of blood. One collapsed before he could move his piece and died right there.

Tyrion followed both. There was something to be learned from the static play of tokens. You could be objective about pieces of polished stone but he wasn't immune to the terror beneath their tower.

"The queen's ships are out of play," Varys muttered from the window, as their canon's stilled. "The last of Yronwood's men are in the city. Anything now would only damage that wall further." He moved Doran's pieces himself. "It's sustained three hits."

"Four," Doran corrected. "Another shot hit right in the centre of our ocean side. We're taking in some flooding as the tide rises. We sent word to the tunnels but our messenger did not return."

"A poor shot..." Varys conceded, of his queen's ship.

"An accident," Doran shrugged. "It is of no matter. Her navy served us well. All the fighters are in the city."

Varys leaned against the ledge. Indeed, Doran was correct. All of Yronwood's men were now flowing through the streets in pre-ordained tributaries where waiting packs of warriors chipped away at their number. The Dothraki were almost wild. They were incapable of holding formation so Quentyn had given them none. Instead, they had free will to maraud as they wished, instilling unpredictable fear in their enemy.

"Wait – there's a group of men at the city doors. Horses. Doran?" Varys turned to the crippled prince, who seemed unconcerned.

"Our men are lifting the doors back into place."

Varys looked again and saw chains quickly threaded through pre-carved holds in the door then attached to the Sunspear's wall. Teams of horses dragged it out of the sand, locking all of Yronwood's men in the city. Trapping them.

"You're not looking for a victory over Yronwood..." Varys said slowly, realising his error. "This is a massacre." For the first time Varys met Doran's eyes and caught a flicker of the cruel intelligence that had helped him keep a crown and peace in the realm for longer than anyone. He masqueraded as a benevolent ruler but he was a cunning brute whose murderous hand was covered in layers of silk. Varys wondered, was this all of his orchestration? Using a Targaryen feud with Westeros to clear out his enemies... Without the queen's armies, he could never have hoped to win. Now, he looked like the hero – a man forced to fend off an unreasonable force and, if he succeeded, Warden of the Stone Way. Another rung on the ladder.

"This dance between the sea and mountains has gone on long enough," Doran replied, without quite admitting guilt. "It was begun long before my time."

Varys was left to watch the trap close. As soon as the door was in place, the bulk of the Unsullied, who had waited – silent – in the buildings nearby, stormed the street. They moved like a silver fish, rippling in the sun as they followed Yronwood's army.

Tyrion, who was hovering around the board, smirked.

"Something amuses you, Lord Tyrion?" Doran asked.

"I did not expect you to use your own palace as the killing fields, that is all," he replied. "The Kings of Westeros protect their throne room as if it were their heart. You have opened the flood gates and beckoned Yronwood's army to your door."

"Of course," Doran replied.

"It serves two purposes, I think," Tyrion extrapolated, amused by Doran's unique slant on war. He'd learned more standing here than from any of his maesters and their dusty sermons. "Firstly, you limit damage to the city which helps with a swift recovery and lets you bounce back against any opportunistic aggressors which I'm guessing, in a land of so many princes, is a real threat. Secondly... You have the most control over the palace – all the better for your fight. It forces Yronwood to meet you in the field where it's least advantageous for him. High risk, to be sure but I dare say brilliant."

Doran bowed his head slightly at Tyrion's skill. "Perhaps you should have been king."

Varys side-eyed the Lannister and Martell. "You two are about to get your wish. The first wave of men have found this street. They'll be at the palace doors shortly."

Tyrion shook his head at the almost clockwork obedience of Yronwood to Doran's will. "I have one question... How did you know that they would be so easily led to your trap?"

"The plan is not mine but Quentyn's," Doran explained. "He has lived under Yronwood's roof for long enough to understand their ways. That is why he was sent to their mountain hold despite his dislike of the place. Know your enemy – love them enough to understand them."

Ruthless was a word that came to Tyrion's mind. No wonder poor Elia had been sent to Rhaegar's side.


Travellers often referred to the tower Doran chose to call his palace an an aging ruin compared to Dorne's other beauties but it had something the sprawling palaces did not.

War traps.

Designed by the Rhoynar and maintained by the Martells, it was a maze of violence. The residents were confined to a series of safe rooms while highly trained fighters patrolled in the open, waiting for the first brave aggressors to meet their end. Among them were Doran's daughter Arianne and his vicious nieces – the Sandsnakes.

Arianne perched on the balustrade of a sweeping staircase. Three of the eldest cousins were scattered in front. They paced restlessly, tapping the bases of their spears against the stone. It echoed in the chamber above whose sole adornment was an iron chandelier dripping tears of wax.

"They will come," Arianne muttered, tired of their unrest. Eight sets of near identical eyes set upon her. The ghost of Oberyn lingered in their depths.

"I thought you were keen on the Yronwood prince," one of them tormented, later, as the assault began on the front door of the palace. It was several levels below. "Cletus? Yes... Until he was savaged by that -"

"Enough," Arianne hushed her casually. "My father is determined never to find a suitor so what does it matter? Your time is better spent worrying about the army at our door."

The Sandsnake shrugged. "Never fear, princess. I know what you prefer." Her eyes drifted to a shadow at the corner of the room. The young man residing in the darkness cut a corner and slipped down a set of stairs before the light could touch him. Arianne said nothing, confirming what everyone in the kingdom already knew.

"Think what you like." Arianne tried to temper her emotion – remain calm like her father in the face of provocation but there were broad strokes of her mother too.


"Foolish girl!" Missandei caught Arya by her jacket and yanked her sharply from her perch. The young girl fell, hitting the dirt at Missandei's feet. "This is war. What were you thinking? You weren't thinking!"

Arya rolled onto her side and coughed up a mouthful of sand. Swords crashed together several streets over. Another rush of hooves approached. Somewhere in the distance, they heard the smash of the door locking back into place.

"Do you want to die out here, Arya Stark? Is that what your father gave his head for? Is that what your living sister and brother will read on the wings of a raven? All you've seen – survived – and you what, think you'll take your chances on foot in a battle-torn city? You know nothing or violence, girl." She reached forward, grabbing her by the arm. "Back to the tunnels."

There was no point fighting. Missandei was stronger than she looked. They approached the market square and the entrance to the tunnel network but were forced backwards by a hoard of Yronwood's men assembling in the centre. Two were knelt in the dirt, inspecting the iron grate where an unusual flurry of footprints had given away the secret entrance.

Arya's heart skipped in her chest as two of them lifted the lid and set it to one side. She watched in horror as they descended, heading into the tunnels that would lead them straight to the defenceless people cowering below.

"We have to do something!" Arya hissed, trying to wriggle free of Missandei's grip.

"Fifteen soldiers?" She replied. "Do what?"

"Find someone. Go after them. Distract them. Something..."

"To save those people or your own guilt?" She asked curiously.

Arya thought the question to be cruel but perhaps that's how things were in the East. "Does the reason matter?"

A long moment stretched between Arya and Missandei where the woman sized up the girl, trying not to become lost in her eyes. They were like two slices of ice. The eyes of a wolf. "You'll do as I say?" Arya nodded and Missandei's grip loosened, her voice low. "If I am killed for this, my gods will come for you."

Missandei spent a moment collecting urns from the market place. She gave two to Arya hold and kept a third for herself. Then, with a final glance to the sky and a prayer that she might look up on it again, she sank into the tunnel. The Stark girl followed. She heard the small impact of her feet in the earth. Without a torch, they relied on the retreating light from the grate. Soon, that became a faded halo in the dark. Like dragons, they shuffled with their ears pricked to the darkness. Salt wind scratched its way past them. Charcoal from a hundred torches clung to the ceiling above. The sound of leather boots grew louder and the distant chatter of the hidden city approached. They could not be far.


"Prince Doran..." Varys abandoned his position at the window. "How large did you say Yronwood's fleet was?"

For the first time Doran showed surprise. "He does not have one."

"Mmm..." Varys sank his hands into his sleeves. "That's what I thought."

Behind, Tyrion spied what the Spider had. "Then who is this?"

The crest of the horizon was marred by tiny specks of an approaching fleet. Doran used the table to help drag himself from his chair. Awkwardly, he crossed the room – taking Tyrion's offered hand until he reached the window. His body might be a wreck but his eyes were sharp. He could see the ships sailing in from the East.

"Those are not Dornish ships," he agreed. "Nor have they come from Westeros. There-" He pointed. Silk hung from his withered arm. He was a frail man draped in finery with a brilliant mind. "-a dragon."

Tyrion and Varys nearly fell. Doran was correct. Soaring above the ships was a shadow in the sky.


Daenerys dug her feet between the horns on Drogon's back. He reared up as he flew, sniffing the air with an excitement she'd never sensed in him before. His wings thrashed roughly in the wind, propelling him toward the Sunspear.

Rhaegal caught sight of his brother and began performing startling dives in the air. To impress his sibling the green dragon climbed as high as he dared then folded in his wings and fell like a stone. When the city walls were in reach he opened them again and veered sharply sending a wave of screams from the soldiers warring in the streets.

Daenerys held on as Drogon copied his brother – although less dramatically. He began by circling the city, scouting the lay of the land before heading out into the water.

"No!" Daenerys shouted at the dragon. "Back toward the city! Drogon! Drogon!"

The pair of dragons abandoned the Sunspear and wove through the queen's ships. Rhaegal particularly made sure to touch a few masts on the way through in a playful gesture. It took a few more minutes before Daenerys realised why her dragons were fleeing out to sea.

"Viserion..." she breathed.

There he was – so beautiful. A shard of sunlight in the sky. He'd grown – larger than Rhaegal but not as much as Drogon. His scales caught all the colours of fire and yet his grace on the air was reserved. He held back his power and maintained a guard over the fleet of ships he led.

A huge fleet.

Daenerys rode Drogon as he sank lower on approach. Pirate flags from all across the East rippled on their masts.


Quentyn choked back a mouthful of blood. None of it was his. With an earthen grunt he kicked the Yronwood soldier so hard in his open wound that the rest of his gut splashed over the ground. His men averted their eyes at the sickening image. Quentyn merely wiped his mouth and fished his blade out of the man's torso.

Many of the Dothraki fought with dragonglass that had been refashioned. When Yronwood swords met those charcoal blades the two crashed together with a hollow clink. Sharper – stronger, sometimes the dragonglass shattered the Dornish blades. Many believed them to be cursed. Savages with sickly weapons.

Many of them went mad with the sudden rush of war. This is what they breathed. What they lived. What they needed... Violence was their outlet in a harsh world.

They rounded another corner of an unnamed street. Heads roll back with guttural cries. The Yronwood men, trapped against an oncoming wall of Unsullied, turned to face the horselords. Some prayed. Most knelt with their spears angled toward the soft bodies of the horses. None expected those beasts to jump so high that they cleared the poisoned tips. Mid-flight, several Dothraki leaped from horseback and landed, blade first, into the soldiers.

Quentyn watched from one of the flat rooftops. He was scouting the field of battle when he paused to admire the flare with which the savages tore down their enemies. Now he understood how nomads could threaten the free world of the East and why sprawling cities cowered at their own gates with offerings of gold and women.

"Leave them," he said, stopping one of his soldiers from heading in toward the fight. "They don't need anyone's help."


Daario Naharis climbed to the front of his ship, tangling his arms in the ropes to inch closer to the approaching dragons.

There she was... Daenerys, clinging to her black demon. They had been apart longer than they were ever together. So long that part of her had become a myth in his mind.

As she drew near, he lifted his hand in greeting. There was no way for any of the dragons to land upon the ships – not any more. Instead, Drogon and Rhaegal fell in line with Viserion and as three terrifying beasts, they flew toward the Sunspear with a fleet of pirates at their heels.

Daenerys leaned over Drogon's side. The Pirate King was dressed in rags held up with belts. A golden sword, nearly as large as he was tall, was strung across his back. Despite the long, reddish beard and wild hair tied back off his face there was no mistaking the figure. Daario was alive.


Doran set the spyglass down with confusion knotted across his tanned skin. "There are three dragons in the sky. Your queen rides with this fleet."

"If they were hostile we can safely assume that she would have Drogon burn them." Tyrion replied, placing a new marker on the board to represent the mysterious fleet.

"Friend or foe, they are no good to Yronwood at the moment."


The palace doors fell easily. Their ailing wood buckled after a few decent hits and most of it was left as an explosion of splinters. The first men through took the stairs at the entrance in their stride. Swords up. Mouths open in victorious cry. A pair of blade swung in – one from each side. Those men were still alive when their bodies split in two and tumbled to the ground.

That gave the others pause. As a group, they stumbled back to the ruined door to take in the halved corpses of their kin. Some were shouting or twitching helplessly while the stone became a veneer of mountain blood. The blades themselves worked only once and were left in full view, dripping against the wall.

The first brave men were forced to duck underneath. Blood smeared onto their shoulders. Their eyes darted to the surrounding walls in case another set of knives lay in wait. They stepped into the great marble foyer with its golden sun and spear set into the floor. Beneath, the ground trembled. It was not stone but fine plaster – painted meticulously – which crumbled under their feet. A dozen men fell into the pit of spikes below where centuries of bones had been left to rot. They took much longer to die.


Missandei caught up with Yronwood's men. Their torches licked the passage in front as they moved at speed toward the defenceless Dornishmen. She took one of the small pottery containers stolen from the market and threw it toward the ceiling above the men. It hit the rock and shattered, drenching them in lamp oil. It was set alight by their torches and with a sudden whoosh of flame, the men began to scream. She tossed a second immediately, compounding the violent flames.

Arya and Missandei backed away as the heat reached their faces. They were spotted through the flames as the dying men fell to the ground. "There!" One of them yelled, lifting his sword. They momentarily forgot their victims ahead and stormed over the corpses of their fallen.

The last jar was thrown. It smashed in front of them but failed to catch alight. Arya withdrew Needle and brandished the sliver of metal. She was pushed back by the older woman who had knives in both hands. Short blades. No match for a sword.

The first of the men to reach Missandei was a bear of a creature, nearly two heads taller than her and wide with an armour of battered steel sheets that ground against each other as he moved. His eyes were wild in the dying flames behind. In one hand he held a broadsword – in the other, his torch. He swung with the torch first, attempting to blind the young foreign woman.

Missandei ducked and veered to the side, shoving one of her knives into the gap at the back of the soldier's knees. It found a piece of flesh. A wash of blood. The soldier grunted and kicked her away leaving the knife in place. She rolled through the dirt with one dagger remaining. Arya braced herself, standing over Missandei ready to fight the enormous warrior. He laughed at the sight. His enormous sword scraped the ceiling as he lifted it overhead and prepared to strike down the child. Arya's feet shifted in the dirt, bracing her hips over her ankles as she'd been taught. A moment before their swords met, Missandei raised her dagger and took the full force of the soldier's swing. Instead of knocking her to the ground or shattering her blade – the soldier's sword came to an abrupt halt. The metal quivered, letting out a song.

A moment of confusion stilled the soldier. He found his blade lifted as the woman stood – pushing him backwards with impossible strength. "What..." he went to say but she knocked away his sword. He felt the blade in the back of his knee again – burning. A pool of blood was forming at his boot as he stumbled. The other men were with him now, watching in confusion as the largest of their number clutched his chest. Poison. His knees hit the ground. His sword clattered beside. Missandei flipped the dagger across her palm.


The walls of the palace shook. Tyrion placed both hands on the stone, feeling the wounds for himself. "They're inside," he whispered.

The last of Doran's advisors flowed in through the doors before the ornate but sturdy pair were boarded shut, trapping everyone in the war room for their safety.

"Now we must wait," Doran moved away from the board. There would be no more updates now. The screams of the dead and sound of swords in the air was all they had to gauge the battle.

Tyrion and Varys were uneasy, clustered near the window as if it offered some hope of escape. It did not, of course. Freedom was an illusion.


Armed with the fallen soldier's broadsword, Missandei backed slowly down the tunnel – drawing the men away from the women and children. She heard Arya keep step behind. There were seven of them left but in the narrow passage only two could stand together – one if they wished to fight.

Everything about Missandei had changed. The way she moved. The way she breathed. The way her eyes set themselves upon the men. She was calm in the face of battle, lifting the heavy sword like an extension of her arm.

As brave as Arya was she knew, hand to hand against plated armour, she could not win. They could run... The men were burdened with too much steel to follow. "Missandei!" Arya hissed.

Missandei's eyes were black. Missandei was gone. She was a face on a wall. A plaything of Death.

"A girl must run..."


One arm of Yronwood's army had been cut off from the palace and found itself lost, pushed around the city streets with a hoard of Dothraki giving chase. After hours spent on the run, being picked off at every turn, they found the harbour and poured onto the dockets. Moored in front was a single ship with a snarly dragon as its figurehead. Men spilled over the side, trying to cut the ropes and unfurl the sails but the desperate soldiers rushed it – launching themselves at the vessel. Like a nest of spiders, they clawed their way onto the deck. Unsullied swords met them.

Those that made it on board parried through spears until inevitability struck and their bodies – living and dead, were thrown into the harbour where sharks circled, feasting on the blood tide.

The dragons saw the battle. Drogon sensed Daenerys' will and was the first to break ranks. He descended to the water line, letting his talons scrape the tips of waves as he closed in on the stricken ship. Bolstered by the familiar calls of the Dothraki, Drogon opened his jaws. On his first pass across the jetty he took three men at once, crushing them with his rows of teeth – half chewing the armour and leather before letting them drop into the water.

Viserion and Rhaegal copied, each taking a pass until Yronwood's men were begging the Unsullied to give them sanctuary on the boat.

A curtain of blood washed over Daenerys' face as Viserion and Rhaegal ripped a Yronwood man apart above her. The rest soaked into Drogon's back. Drogon landed on the jetty. Part of it collapsed under his weight, its broken spine sagging into the water. The red tide lapped at the dragon's hind quarters. Daenerys thought it looked more like royal silk that ocean – except for the bodies which floated across the surface. Some surged in the water as sharks fought over them. Even the Unsullied, used to the vision of their queen on dragon-back, were disturbed by the indiscriminate violence of her children.


Lord Yronwood reached the palace doors. He found them torn apart and the raiding party slaughtered near or just inside the palace. Traps. He'd suspected as much of his Martell friends. They were fond of indirect methods of slaughter. Yronwood prefered to look his enemy in the eye as the blade went in. It was more satisfying that way.

"No – easy..." He lifted his sword to stop some of his men from edging into the palace. "They want us inside. There's no reason to rush."

In the streets behind, Yronwood could hear the rest of his army. They'd arrive soon and following them, the combined armies of Doran and his Dragon whore.


Tyrion perched on the window sill, playing with death as one leg draped over the side. It dangled in the breeze while the rest of his body baked in the midday sun. Soon, the orb would shift to the other side of the tower and leave them in shadow.

Something cracked.

He frowned, eyeing his immediate surrounds. He thought it might have been the ledge of stone preparing to give way but his fears were unfounded. The palace tower had stood for several thousand years and it wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.

Crack.

It happened again – this time followed by a rumble in the air. He looked back into the room but neither Varys nor Doran responded. Varys was brooding in a corner, cursing magic and prophecy for bringing him to this place. Doran sat at his board.

Crack...

The noise was outside. Tyrion gripped hold of the wall and leaned further out the window. The streets below overflowed with Yronwood's men. A few of them looked up to see him balanced on the outside of the tower. He was too high for sword or arrow to reach so for the moment they ignored him and focused on the next assault. They were about to be bookended by Quentyn's men. Unsullied streamed in from the left. Dothraki screamed and butchered their way from the sea and the Dornish army closed in from the right. Soon, it would be a murderous field.

Crack!

This time Tyrion saw... The second tower of the Sunspear was slender and much taller than the Tower of the Sun where they were safely ensconced. An earthquake several generations ago had left the Spear Tower with a pronounced lean. Now, the ominous crack was splitting further – bleeding up through the layers of stone. The ground on one side of it shook as an explosion rocked the foundations. Yronwood must have sent men into the tunnels to destabilise the tower but why?

Tyrion got his answer in a ruthless avalanche of rock as the tower buckled. Right before his eyes, the Spear Tower began to slide. At first it was graceful – the crack became a clear cut allowing the top two-thirds of the tower to slip backwards. Below, Yronwood's men raced toward the palace for shelter. Quentyn's were not so lucky. They were caught off guard as bricks rained down, striking the men. Terrified screams were quickly obliterated as the top of the tower shuddered, caught by gravity and pulled suddenly into free-fall. It rolled slightly in the air – hurtling toward Tyrion. He shrieked and rolled off the sill and landed in the room with a clamour of steel. He cowered behind the wall. A rage of ash poured out of the impact. It rose, like smoke from a fire, smothering the city in a creation of ash so tall and wild it put the lost tower to shame. The bottom portion remained standing. A broken spike of useless stone with its innards laid bare.

Hundreds of Yronwood's men died but nearly all of Quentyn's were cut off from the palace, swaying the odds in the reckless lord's favour. It would take them hours to clear a path through the rubble leaving Yronwood alone with Doran's palace.

"I wonder where he learned that?" Varys asked, all too coolly. He, like everything else in the room, was covered in a mist of white dust. Stray pieces of brick had been thrown into their room – knocking one of the guards unconscious.

"Fool!" Doran coughed violently. He was struck with disbelief. "He crushed his own men!"

"And now he'll calmly raid your palace..." Varys finished. "Lord Yronwood is many things but so far I've been presented with nothing worth calling him a fool." He was the fool, thought Varys cruelly of himself. All his life he'd fought against the wills of magic and destiny. His recent choice to follow had led to this place where he'd almost certainly die.


Arya tore through the tunnels. She fled blindly under a huge explosion which knocked her face first into the dirt. She rolled to the side – crawled backwards as the roof above collapsed in places and sunlight cut through. Dirt suffocated the air. She picked herself up and took a fork on the left. The occasional lanterns left hanging in the tunnel swayed violently from side to side. One unhooked and smashed to the ground in front. Then another. Dying one at a time. Their struggling light reminded her of another tunnel. That one led to a hall of faces. She could still see them in her dreams. Column upon column of stretched skin and the eyes of the lost, waiting to wake.

The next quake was not an explosion. Arya wasn't just knocked to the ground – she was thrown from side to side, smashing into one of the lanterns. Hot wax showered her, seeping through her cotton shirt. It burned. Arya cried out, clutching at her clothes as she was tossed into the other wall. Over and over – twice more until the building above came to rest. The roof of the tunnel held but the air was filled with uncertain sounds of collapse.

Exhausted, she let her head rest on the ground. Her arms were outstretched, one of them clutching Needle. If she just lay here, would she become part of the caves? Consumed by the darkness. Was there peace here?


Calm, Lord Yronwood held a cloth over his mouth as the dust cleared. He entered the palace with his men carefully following in his footsteps. He touched the bloodied edge of the swinging blades. He scanned the victims writhing on spikes inside the pit and ordered an archer to finish off those whose chests still rose. The last trap was still in place. He paused, indicating for his men to stay were they were.


"No! Drogon! No!" The queen was ignored by her dragon as the largest of the three turned on the ship. At first it was chasing Yronwood men who clung to the side in the hopes of salvation. It reared up – placing its front two paws on the rail to steady itself while it closed its jaws on flesh and steel. The ship canted sharply under the dragon's weight. The sudden movement sent a wave of bodies, most of them belonging to the queen, toward Drogon's jaws.

The inexperienced dragon startled as they collided with his snout. Some were crushed immediately. Others, screaming, grabbed onto ropes and tried to haul themselves to safety. A moment later Drogon opened his throat.

Daenerys felt heat swell between her thighs before the stream of fire annihilated everything on the deck. Warriors fell howling into the red sea. The flames caught in the sails, taking hold so fast they seemed to evaporate. The deck caught too and then, after minutes that dragged for hours in the queen's mind, the butchery was ended when the oil reserves exploded.


Daario covered his eyes as the ship became a fireball. He watched Drogon forced backwards into the water and his siblings circle above, raining fire from their mouths. The queen, clinging to his back, went under and emerged a moment later with her silver hair dyed red...


Beneath the shallow water, Daenerys found the world in a permanent hush. Through the blood soaked sea she could see the flames billowing over the surface – caressing the waves with its plumes of heat. The two could not mix and so remained separated by an invisible veil.

Pieces of wood hit the surface, piercing like arrows before beginning their slow spiral towards the depths. She held her breath. Gripped Drogon fiercely. The moment of serenity started to fade as he moved his legs. Drogon found the sandy floor of the harbour and kicked off, propelling his body and the queen into the air just as the fire died away.

She gasped.

Unsullied called to her. Whispered prayers. Cried them with real tears the world thought them incapable of shedding. She could not even reach a hand to them for fear of falling from Drogon's back.


Black Scale surfaced. Instead of reaching for the burning ship, he swam through the saturated water toward the second jetty. It stood abandoned in the water with ladders within reach. Those of his men who could swim followed their commander. They were calm, keeping their movements from breaking the surface. As long as they moved quietly, the sharks savaging bodies left them alone.

He was the first onto the jetty and immediately turned to help the others out of the water. A few remaining Yronwood tried to follow but Black Scale, sword-less, dragged them onto the jetty only so that he could smash their skulls open.

Many of the queen's men survived but not her ship. It was too risky to bring another one in from the harbour to pick them up so Black Scale led his party of men toward the city – scavenging weapons as they went.


Quaithe's dream blurred with reality. Red waters lapped at the Sunspear and this time they were accompanied by real screams.

"Is it as you saw?" Daario asked the sorceress. "Of course it is. You have that look about you... I've seen it on the queen before."

She held the rail to stop herself from trembling. All three dragons lost interest in the wreck. They returned to the air, playing above the city. For all the violence, the Sunspear still glistened magnificently – a star brought to halt.