THE SUNSPEAR - DORNE
Jorah witnessed hell unfold.
The Spear Tower fell like a frost-encrusted pine, slipping through the forest. Dust from its corpse seethed against the streets then rose over the trembling buildings, partially obscuring their broken bones with ash. Fires burned along the edge of the harbour, lighting the underside of the morbid cloud that cast the entire peninsula into shadow. Fragments of the queen's decimated ship were sucked in rip-tides toward the ocean, scattering across the surface like pieces of a fallen star.
Lapis became ruby as the waters around the Sunspear turned. A Blood Tide, as the Mormonts called it. One had enveloped Bear Island when Jorah was an infant – its feasting gods took his mother's soul. His father had always said that the waters housed angry spirits and restless things that time forgot. Under the waves, those creatures waited for men to go to war and then fed on their dead. There were no words for gods like those. They'd been left nameless. Too old for songs.
"Two gods – always," Dacey had teased Jorah, when he was big enough to hold a sword. She'd knock him across the back of the knees, send his face into the snow, then continue with her lesson. "Locked in a mad spiral. One lived in the ocean where the depths birthed fire and blood. It set to war against the Storm. A doomed embrace followed of vicious winds, howling waves and fogs that covered continents. The Storm's eyes became ravens and its vengeance the ice locked waters."
Her stories ended while they huddled in Bear Island's sea caves with thunder on the air and bruises on his limbs. Jorah would never forget her stories or the wild look in her eyes. He used to wonder if she'd seen a face in the depths that night she'd near drowned.
As another building in the Dornish city crumbled, Jorah knew that he could not leave Daenerys alone in battle. Without a horse, the city was half a day's walk by which time the war would be decided either way.
With no hope at all, Jorah stepped off the sweeping dune onto the flat where the water drained across the stretch of sand leaving a watery mirror of the sun on its surface. Desperation closed his eyes. He felt heat torch his skin. Salt deepen his cracked hide. The wind offered a moment of respite then turned and snapped his cheek with its scorching tail. Then he noticed something else – something alive – shifting in the darkness.
Daario remained at his perch, tangled in the rigging while his crew of pirates navigated the queen's scattered fleet, shouting and hauling sails into place. The queen's ships stayed static as the pirate fleet wove through, intending to make port at the Sunspear and join the rampage. Daario did not attempt to stop them. They'd been at sea for months and ached for a slaughter.
One Unsullied commander hoisted signal flags urging the pirates to stop but the only colours Daario intended to fly today were the pirate colours. He was captain. If he wished to retain that position he had to appear strong. Pirates were a lot like Dothraki. No, he reflected, they are like the Iron Born – his kin.
"Strange..." Quaithe mused, as Viserion lifted his golden head and turned toward the North, breaking formation with his brothers. His huge eyes searched the sand where a scattering of caravans and residents headed steadily up the beach. Then, quite inexplicably, the dragon dove and veered sharply for the shore. His wings dipped low, cutting pathways through the water which was thrown up in foaming jets.
"Viserion?" Daario murmured sadly to the wind. His fists tightened on the ropes as he leaned over the bow as far as he dared, letting the spray kick up onto his face.
Quaithe tilted her head causing her golden mask to sing. "He is not your dragon," she cautioned.
"This is a thing I understand..." Daario replied sharply. Salt covered his face and stung his eyes. "I call his name because he is not following the queen's commands. See? She is shouting too."
A tiny silver woman screamed from the monstrous form of her largest dragon. Quaithe observed carefully. None of the dragons appeared to be within her control. "Dragons are wilful..."
"I understand this also." Daario wondered if the queen did. "'Soul' it is called, where I came from. Children who refuse to settle – run wild on the seas and strike other children – either win or they die. A few become kings."
"And the rest?"
"Fodder for the sea." Daario stepped back and fell onto deck. He crossed the ship, following Viserion's progress as he landed on the tide line in a blinding vision of gold.
Jorah did not open his eyes until he felt the dragon's talons dig into the sand.
"Viserion..."
More than the other two, Viserion had been his creature. Jorah's shoulder was Viserion's perch and his hands a second set of wings to scoop the infant dragon into the air. He was not a cub any longer. Loose in the world, Viserion had grown to immense proportions. His scales had taken on the colour of chalk cliffs, marbled with brown, red and white among the gold. He shared Rhaegal's script-like etchings on his scales but none of the battle injuries of his two brothers. He was unmarred by the world – ethereal in his perfection.
...and he had come when Jorah called.
Calmly and without fear, Jorah approached. The waters around their feet ran red, lapping gently at the shore. When he drew close, Viserion leaned in and nudged Jorah's chest with his snout – knocking the knight into the waters.
Jorah laughed. "You foolish thing..." he scolded.
The dragon tried again, barely ghosting Jorah's shirt. His nostrils opened with a trail of smoke. Jorah relented, reaching out to run his hand up and down the tip of his snout. A crackle of sounds akin to a purr reverberated through rows of terrifying fangs.
"Were you off having adventures?" he asked the creature. "All this time... We worried – I worried."
The dragon could not reply. Instead, it tilted its head and set a golden eye upon the knight. Its lid slid over, blinking peacefully.
"You've come, which means that you understand what I need, old friend..." Jorah continued, his voice soft.
Jorah pried himself from the water and paced slowly around to the left of the dragon where the water was shallow. A moment of doubt. Unsaddled and unknown, Jorah considered the task of mounting Viserion. Drogon's back was awash with stray horns which he and the queen used as a ladder. Viserion was smooth with neat rows of horns across the top of his head and in twin lines down his back – both out of reach.
Viserion lowered his body, grazing his belly on the sand. His wing scooped forward, flattening into a veil of skin at Jorah's feet. Hesitant, his boot ventured onto the edge. The skin sagged slightly, taking the knight's weight. Viserion curled his claws deeper into the sand. Another step. Another. Soon he approached the first joint on the wing. Jorah fell to his arse, reaching frantically for the knuckle of bone as the dragon suddenly folded his wing sending the knight into a tumble.
"Viserion!" Jorah shouted. The world spun wildly around him. Desert became sky. Dunes bled into glimpses of the smouldering city. Jorah realised his mistake as the dragon turned and tilted his wing, forcing Jorah to roll all the way across the wing and onto its golden back where his hands found a row of spines. Viserion chirped. Jorah shifted, searching for a proper hold before the dragon began its run down the beach.
Trust.
It was something Jorah was going to have to rediscover.
Quentyn dove off the partially collapsed building – reaching wildly for the ledge in front. Behind, the tower broke apart, falling in pieces the size of carts which smashed into the street. One hit at Quentyn's heels, vaporising the platform where'd stood a moment before. Boom. He felt the air shake as his hands caught the ledge.
Slipped.
He fell with his palms against the wall in search of purchase where there was only rock. They were raw by the time he caught an iron bar left exposed by the destruction. Blood trickled down his wrists to his forearms as he swung. A thick, impenetrable cloud of dust swirled over Quentyn, choking his lungs. He pressed his head against the wall, shut his eyes and gripped tight leaving his body to hang. Darkness came over the Sunspear. More buildings crumbled – this time unseen. He felt as if the whole city had sunk beneath the ocean.
Quentyn dripped sweat and blood in equal measure. His arms pained. Limbs weakened until his entire world was reduced to the wall in front and the bar in his hands. The metal was heating in the flames of an unseen fire. Would he survive the fall? There was no way to tell. A screech cut through the sounds of war. It was unholy. Dragons. Daenerys. Targaryens riding monsters. What folly led him here?
When he finally fell, it was in silence. His eyes remained fixed on the smoke, never daring to see what lay beneath.
Quentyn landed with a soft thud on a pile of bodies. A sea of glass eyes looked into nowhere. Their scalps were scattered over the ground in a morbid halo. Quentyn recoiled and scrambled to his knees. His body was soaked by their grisly cruor. The dust cleared to the sound of hooves.
Dothraki revelled in the calamity – rounding up terrified soldiers. Yronwood's men tried to yield but there was no word for 'yield' in Dothraki. One of the largest riders dismounted his horse and came at Quentyn, brandishing his bare hands that were the size of Quentyn's head. His hair was braided, reaching to the base of his spine. It swayed as he walked.
"Wait!" Quentyn backed away, stumbling over the ruined limbs of the victims beneath. "I am the queen's prince – your queen's prince." He pleaded in the Common Tongue, then again in High Valyrian. They did not understand. These Dothraki were wild. Nothing like the ones she'd paraded in front of him earlier. Quentyn looked around but his spear and swords were gone. He withdrew a small dagger, holding it up. Standing toe to toe, Quentyn felt like a child. The first strike of the Dothraki's paw sent him tumbling from the pile. The second disarmed him. He heard the knife bounce away in the street. The next hit was death – of this he was certain. He searched for words he might whisper to the gods but surely there were no gods left in the burning city.
"The Khaleesi commands that this one is protected..."
The Dothraki warrior turned to find Black Scale staring him down – dripping wet with a company of Unsullied and Dothraki at his back. They carried a single, torn dragon banner. Black Scale's mastery of Dothraki was enough to sway the warrior. Instead of violence, the Dothraki offered Quentyn his hand, helping him to his feet. Quentyn nodded and then gave the enormous man a playful slap on the arm. Best not to hold grudges among allies the size of horses.
"Thank you," Quentyn added, turning to Black Scale when the warrior lost interest. "I thought that one might have my scalp for his saddle."
"That one would," Black Scale assured the young prince. "Where are your men, Prince Quentyn?"
"Scattered through the streets when the tower fell. Yronwood has cut our forces off from the palace leaving him free to sack it. We have to get past this barrier of rubble or the war for Westeros will die here, in Dorne."
Black Scale's men organised the roving Dothraki into teams while Martell's men emerged from the rubble. "Then we best clear a path through to the palace. The flags..." Black Scale added later, arms around a huge stone. "Why not all the same?"
Quentyn glanced over to the pile of bodies. There were shreds of fabric amongst them. Most belonged to house Yronwood but there were others. "Houses Jordayne and Blackmont rode with Yronwoord and a few minor lords. They are old enemies. Hatred has been left to fester in perfumed smoke for a thousand years. There is a reason foreigners refer to Dorne as a pit of vipers. Wars of the West are like shards of flint for the Dornish. When tonight ends, the empire of Dorne will be a different beast."
A brush of black wings landed on the sill. Varys caught the raven and prised a message from its leg. It ruffled its mane of feathers, shivering free of their dust.
"Are you honestly taking ravens at a time like this?" Tyrion asked, incredulously.
"It may well be the last raven I see," Varys defended. "A final chance to protect the realm from itself. The limbs of Westeros are dragging apart to the point of tearing. A broken, indefensible realm with a mutilated iron sculpture at its heart is no future."
"Spare me..." Tyrion groaned, before Prince Doran caught his eye. "Nobel as your intent is, there are things of a more imminent concern... Varys..." No answer. "Who writes to you?"
"A cub," he replied.
"The Mormont?"
"The girl?" Prince Doran interceded, wheeling his chair closer. "I hear that one has ice for a soul and makes grown men tremble." He was amused at the thought. Perhaps he should send Quentyn North to make her acquaintance. That boy could do with a bit of tempering. "A niece, is she not, of the queen's knight?"
Varys dipped his head. "She is. Twice as fierce but what can you expect of a child named after tragedy..."
Prince Doran looked away. Lyanna Stark. "My sister and all her children died for that name. There are days when I wish I was more like Oberyn. He, at least, brushed his fingertips against vengeance. Mine cannot hold a sword let alone slit a Lannister throat." His weakened limbs did not speak for his raging soul.
Tyrion Lannister moved closer. "That, he did. I was shown more kindness from your brother – a relative stranger – than my family. I don't mind that Oberyn's kindness found roots in revenge. When I was sitting alone in a cell under the Red Keep pondering the veil beyond the sword, he held a flame to the darkness and burdened me with hope. Have hope, Prince Doran. Should we survive this, I swear, on whatever honour I have left, you will taste the same vengeance as Oberyn."
Doran was amazed. "You cheer on the death of your kin? Even the boy king?"
No, thought Tyrion, not the boy. Not his brother either. "And what are the Spider's last words to be?" he turned to ask Varys, instead of answering the prince's question.
Varys blew the ink dry. "Sound advice, I hope. I have brought it to Lady Mormont's attention that when the snows drift over the Riverlands and she finds her people starving, homeless and bloody, she'll be needing friends in the South. Sometimes you have to remind the Northern folk about the concept of the realm. It's the blood of the First Men. I think it drives them a little mad. Certainly it stirs their violence."
"If half the stories I've heard of the North are true, I do not blame their madness." Doran replied, one eye on the Lannister.
"Half?" Tyrion laughed, wishing he'd brought the wine from his quarters. "A thousand foot wall was not built on rumour. Trust me, I've seen it. Placed both my hands on it. Whatever is up in the North, it is as real as the ice keeping it at bay."
A clash of swords in the palace beyond disturbed the room. Doran shifted uneasily in his chair. Varys tied his message to the raven and tossed it out the window to safety. "You ache to join the fray..." Varys rumbled curiously, when he noticed Doran pine at the door.
"My curse, Lord Varys, is that I must allow my children to fight my battles. Mine and Oberyn's..."
Sand trapped in the palace foundations streamed from fresh cracks in the ailing ceiling. It formed pale waterfalls across the empty throne room transforming the gaping area it into a tomb. Gerold Dayne listened to the soft hiss against the stone. Clouds of smoke outside dismantled allowing sunlight onto the stained-glass windows which lined the right hand wall. It illuminated with false suns – spears driven through their hearts. Vipers tangled in love nests. Ships fighting dragons. A fallen star... The history of Dorne was laid bare in shattered colour. It was a selective history that failed to mention droughts that dragged on for decades and Dornish bones left to rot in the sands, enduring the endless torment of a salted tide.
Armed with a pair of slender blades, Gerold waited patiently in the centre of the room. He was guarded by a pair of stone snakes, carved mid-strike, reaching almost to the ceiling. Most of the candles from the iron chandeliers lay scattered on the floor in a blood-bath of wax, shaken free by the destruction of the city. One beast of iron had been left to hang by a single chain.
"Must you..." Gerold Dayne sighed, when he could stand the sound no more.
Obara kicked one of the candles across the black slate. Losing control, it clipped the edge of a stair and plunged into a deafening descent, landing next to the sullen figure.
"You are not half so pretty as you think you are..." he added, with a drawl as though the air itself offended him.
"And what are you – the evening star? No – that's not it... I'm trying to remember it now, you told us once – before we left you tied to that tavern door. Darkstar – that was it – or 'Collapsedstar' as Tyene put it, when your head went into the feed trough. What use is a star which gives no light and drags the whole sky toward it? You are an odd creature, Dayne – like the rest of your kind."
Obara followed her candle down the stairs. Daynes were strange in every way – pale and tall with violet eyes. Darker than Targaryen eyes and older. Traditionally Dayne's boasted silver hair but Gerold was born with a streak of black straight through his. Obara thought it made him resemble a painted fish and told him so as often as she could. He had the temperament for it. Cold. Cruel. Brooding. All the things Obara looked for in a man but Gerold had an untenable quality that disturbed her.
"Last chance, Obara, to run back to your mother and hide." He warned, as she drew closer.
Obara brandished her spear in Gerold's direction. Poison swelled at its edge. "Mother is not hiding!"
A delicate nerve... "Then where is she – the great Ellaria Sand? Skulking about in the desert, last I heard. Some might even say she wants Prince Doran to fall today. There's nothing like a good war to shake up the line of succession."
"Take that back..."
"Am I right?"
"Take it back..." Her dark eyes fixed on him. Honour was all a bastard had to count as reputation. "Now!" When he refused, Obara swung her spear. He crossed his swords, easily blocking her attempt. "Take it back!" She leaned her weight onto the swords. Their eyes met.
"Your blood runs hot and thick, Obara. Don't let it get you killed." Gerold pushed her off easily.
Obara kicked the candle in frustration but did not attack again. "At least I am here for Dorne," she added with a hiss, taking her final position near the entrance where the doors were bolted shut. The hammering of swords grew beyond. "There's a name for what drives you. Chaos."
There certainly was a name driving Darkstar and that name was Arianne Martell.
"Are you certain they're chasing us?" asked Arianne. She was shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the Sandsnakes, racing through the interior of the palace with a hoard of Yronwood's men furiously pursuing. They'd taken great offence to the ambush at the servants' quarters and chased them with hot oil still running down their skin. Some smouldered. Arianne could smell the terrible stench of burned flesh on the air.
One of the Sandsnakes ducked as a knife clipped the wall beside her head, sending a shower of sparks across her face. "They are following!"
An immense stone pillar had falling across the hallway in front. The Sandsnakes scooted under it, vanishing like vipers in the sand while Arianne vaulted over its smooth surface, rolling at the top before sliding down the other side. It slowed their pursuers giving them enough time to burst through the doors into the throne room where Obara and Darkstar lay in wait. They bolted up the stairs and took their positions, egging Yronwood's men into the trap while the other two prepared to close the doors.
Once inside, Yronwood's men found themselves surrounded. They were unmoved, bolstered by the confidence of overwhelming numbers. Fighting broke out amid the raining sands. It was artful. Poetic even, as swords and spears danced.
Obara was the most skilled of the snakes. She hooked her foot beneath the candle on the ground and kicked it into a soldier's face. As he stumbled backwards, she pushed her foot-long spear directly through his skull. She let him hang there, suspended on her blade while she watched the life drain from his eyes. Gerold looked up as his sword sliced carelessly across a Yronwood breastplate. He cut the soldier down while his eyes remained firmly on Obara's brutality. She enjoyed the blood. As the body slid off her spear, her eyes became heavy with a sheen of delight.
A clash of blades to his left stole Gerold's attention. He finished off the man at his feet and turned to find Arianne corned on the throne itself, standing on the heart of Dorne with a pack of Yronwood circling. Her Martell name drove them wild, stirring the bloody swords in their hands.
"Ari!" Gerold called across the room in uncharacteristic panic. She caught his gaze for a moment before she was enveloped by a storm of blades. Darkstar pushed an approaching soldier into the path of Obara – who snickered at the gift – then he climbed the stone steps three at a time, vaulting toward the pack of men.
At first Arianne growled at his presence but soon one of the swords snapped her spear and she was left parrying with two short lengths of wood. She struck one of them with the edge of the spear, pushing the poison in deep. At once, the soldier's heart stopped. His sword clattered to the ground. His face turned purple and foam frothed from his lips. The next thing she felt was a warm splash across the back of her knees. Arianne saw her fate in Darkstar's eyes. They widened in horror as her body fell forward. Her veins, opened behind her knees, poured blood over the throne. A waiting sword pierced her lung as she impaled herself, still clutching the ends of her spear. Her last view was of the slate – black and endless as the night.
In a rage, Darkstar destroyed the rest of the men – tearing limbs off with his sword, embedding blades in skulls as if they were cracked snake eggs left to rot in the sands. When the last was dead and the Sandsnakes retreated to the shadows at the edge of the room, Darkstar climbed to the throne where Arianne lay, mutilated and still like one of the images caught in glass. He could not bear to touch her.
His face sharpened, as though cut by glaciers. Violet eyes brimmed with fire. The delicate balance between sanity and madness wavered. Daynes were the blood of Asshai. If Targaryens turned on the flip of a coin then Daynes balanced at the tip of a sword.
Pirates swarmed the docks. Some of them carried Targaryen banners, torn and lashed to pieces of rubble. Daario joined them, unsheathing his huge Valyrian sword. It slid through the lingering smoke, catching the light. Any wandering Yronwood were attacked, stripped and robbed.
Daario climbed onto the broken body of the tower, elevating himself above the field. Balanced precariously on the peak he saw Daenerys on dragon-back, circling the remaining tower. Drogon was snapping at the stone, lost in a frenzy.
Viserion lay beneath, shaking off a layer of rubble. He was feasting on Yronwood bodies, calmly chirping while Black Scale helped Quentyn move stones away from the palace doors. They were nearly inside.
Varys lay pressed against the tower wall – arms outstretched – eyes closed as Drogon made another pass at them. His long, black claws scraped against the rock, tearing pieces off. The remnants fell into the room with Doran, Tyrion, Varys and some nervous guards. Traditionally, when dragons came to Dorne the city vanished underground...
"War has stirred him up!" Tyrion shouted, over the roar. "He can smell us."
Doran gripped the war table whose pieces lay scattered across the ground. "The queen still rides him."
Tyrion was about to reply when the great doors behind him suddenly shook with a tremendous crash. "Yronwood!" They all turned to the doors as the battering ram on the other side backed up for another strike. "Quick!" Tyrion cried, "The table – push the table!"
Every able body took hold of the slab of ironwood and heaved it over the stone. Black wings brushed over the window again, blotting out the sun in a sickening rhythm.
Jorah wrapped his arm in a dead man's cloak and pushed his elbow through a window. From high on the rubble, there was a considerable drop into the room below. He undid the leathers holding his swords and carefully dropped them into the abyss. Jorah followed, suspending himself from a wooden ledge beneath the window before scaling the throne room's wall. He landed on a fresh pile of sand and was greeted with a tomb. As he affixed his weapons he counted the bodies of a recent battle.
His eyes were drawn to the throne where a beautiful young woman was draped, broken and red across the chair. Arianne Martell. Jorah knew that face.
He took Snowflake and touched the tip of the ice-sword to the blade in her chest. The steel shattered and she fell forward into Jorah's waiting arms. He laid her backwards until she was seated in the throne then closed her eyes and left her to the desert gods.
Arya lay against the dirt of the tunnel. The remaining lanterns flickered wildly, dying as their glass containers played with death. Above, the world rumbled. Fragments of light and smoke spilled in through fresh holes torn in the ceiling. Wailing children faded into the background as Missandei approached – first as a shadow, stepping between the halos of light cast by the lanterns. Many of them had broken and set the ground alight in small pools of fire.
The young wolf scrambled to her feet, lifting Needle. This time she was sure...
Missandei reached up with her free hand and ran her fingers along the underside of her jaw, pausing to pick at a line of flesh. Then – slowly - she pealed away the kind face of the Naathi scribe.
Tears lined her lashes. "Jaqen H'ghar..." Arya whispered.
This time, he did not refuse his name or protest it. Instead, he stretched his arms and bowed lightly at the heiress of Winterfell. "As a girl sees."
"What happened to the woman?"
Jaqen shrugged. "The one called Missandei followed a eunuch to the House of Black and White – saw something she should not have..."
Arya considered this then narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "That does not explain why you took her face and followed me here..."
"No – a girl is correct." Though he offered no further explanation. Jaqen watched the girl's tiny, sharp sword sway back and forth, hovering between his heart and throat. "What are you thinking, little wolf?" He asked curiously. "That you will kill a man or-" To his infinite surprise, Jaqen was halted mid-thought by a flurry of arms around his waist. He knelt on instinct, dropping his lantern. With the ghost of someone long past, he lifted the Stark from the ground. Re-united, they said nothing.
Drogon lost interest in the tower and, with Daenerys screaming at his back, took off toward the sea where he dipped and brushed his wings against the water. He opened his mouth, tearing hollows in the surface with bursts of fire. Rhaegal, who had remained calm wading in the water near the docks, picked off the corpses and occasional shark. Some of the Unsullied who were used to feeding him drifted in closer on row boats and tried to coax him away from the city.
With the threat of the dragon removed from the window, Varys returned to the gaping hole in the side of the tower and peered down at the city below. He was met with the filthy face of a girl, climbing into the window.
"Arya Stark!" Varys near fell to the ground in shock as the Ned Stark's offspring scrambled into the room. She was covered in scratches and soot from the tunnels beneath the city.
Tyrion smirked despite the endless thrash of Yronwood's men against the door. "You have your brother's talent for climbing," Tyrion observed. "I'm not sure that would please your mother."
"My mother is dead," Arya snapped, eyeing everyone in the room – marking them. "And my brother didn't fall. He never falls."
"He did fall," Tyrion assured her. "And likely lays with your mother."
This time it was Arya's turn to curl the edge of her lip. Rickon slept with mother. Bran – Bran dreamed. "They'll break through that door soon," she observed, watching the hinges shudder. They would give way long before the slabs of wood.
"You were safer beneath the city," Prince Doran said, amazed to find the Stark girl within his walls after he'd warned her to flee.
"You haven't seen what's beneath the city." Arya did not volunteer the information. Instead, she took up perch on the sill and watched the door tremble. It was a storm, building. A swell of violence that made the air thick. She was entranced by it. When she looked upon the faces in the room Arya saw no one at all. Faceless corpses. A lion. A spider. A snake. They were nothing to the snow.
Darkstar carved his way through the sweeping tails of Yronwood's men. They clogged the corridors of the palace, tearing at the walls, pulverising previous relics – massacring the workers. He waited until they funnelled into the narrow stretches and then unleashed his fury. In close quarters, no one living could match Darkstar with a sword. His blade spun so fast that it left a morbid note on the air. A whistle of approaching death which was heard but never seen. Their throats opened. Armour crumbled. Like the buildings of the Sunspear their towering figures tumbled helplessly. A dozen. Thirty. More. He lost count.
He emerged from another slaughter, leaning on the great doors to open them. Their edges dragged through pools of blood. His face, obscured with sand, was locked in an godly rage.
The ballroom glinted with Yronwood armour. You could pick them from across the dune. Gold shoulder plates, a silver breast and a black gate burned into their heart. Yellow tufts of feather erupted from their helmets. Most were thick with blood.
They were occupied already, converging on a figure at the other end of the hall. Nearly a foot taller than the crowd, a Westerosi knight slashed at them with a blade in each hand. One was thin and blue like a slither of ice. Its touch shattered any sword that dared to lift in its direction showering the aggressors in a hail of snow. The other. The other... Darkstar lost his breath at the sight of the milky-blade striking the air. Their blood couldn't touch it. Light bent around its edge – held back by some ancient magic. Dawn. Gerold felt its presence in his bones.
The knight pushed Yronwood's men back like a wave repelled from a boulder in the sea. They fell against each other, skewered where they lay – their swords left as dust with their hands clutching empty crossguards.
As their bodies folded, a pathway emerged between Darkstar and the knight. He was a beast barely wearing the torn remnants of a shirt and a woollen kilt in the deserts of Dorne soaked the sweat and blood alike. It was the eyes that cut deeper than his pair of mis-matched swords. Cold and cesious, they could have been bergs adrift in the mist. A bear, for sure. The dragon queen's disgraced Northern consort. He'd heard the whispers but never did Darkstar imagine a tremble to spread across his flesh at the sight.
Some of Yronwood's men noticed the presence of the blood soaked Darkstar. Menacingly, he lifted his sword to their curiosity, daring them to challenge. They did.
Jaqen entered the palace from the tunnels. He kept his face, gambling that a pale, foreign man would draw less attention than the woman he'd worn earlier as he crept through the palace. Its inhabitants had fled to the shadows like rats leaving only men with swords to stalk the hallways. He owed neither party any affection but for the Stark girl's sake, he slit the throat of any Yronwood he found and pulled them into abandoned corners.
He could not help but feel that he was stealing from the Red God as their bodies fell lifeless in his hands.
Around a corner, he found himself knee-deep in bodies and at the head of the slaughter, two men facing off an army.
Abruptly, the door fell silent. Tyrion gripped the knife handle, wrapping his chubby hands around the leather wrappings. The Seven Gods themselves could not have parted him from the blade. Silence settled over the room. The wind across the open stone became the only sound. It made a low hiss.
"Prince Doran – what are you doing?" Varys whispered urgently, as the Martell prince dragged his bones from the chair.
"Opening the door, of course," he replied calmly. His terrified guards attended to him, holding onto his arm while Doran pushed the golden spear that had been boarding the doors from the iron holdings. It clattered to the ground. "Now open the doors." He commanded.
Varys and Tyrion shifted closer together, instinctively guarding the Stark girl who stood without fear on the stone sill. Tyrion heard the Spider withdraw a short, slender blade from within his silk sleeves. "How long has that been there?" he asked.
"All spiders have fangs, Lord Tyrion," Varys assured him.
The doors were pealed open by a pair of guards. Prince Doran faced the entrance, determined to meet whatever waited on the other side on his feet.
Doran saw a head first. Mounted on a spike, the ugly thing stared hollow-eyed at the gilded palace. Sinew and hair mingled, brushing against Gerold Dayne's fist where he clutched the spear. Those eyes were mirthless.
There were three men at the door. Darkstar – one of the Prince's bannermen, the Mormont knight and a sallow, thin man he had never seen before standing between them. The stranger's face was half in shadow, cut by the stark light streaming in blinding waves from a broken window.
Jaqen H'ghar was the first to kneel at Prince Doran's feet. He laid his sword over his knee and dipped his head. Jorah was next, placing both his swords against the stone. Darkstar's eyes lingered on Dawn but he too bent the knee to his prince.
From nowhere, the Sandsnakes sidled into view, wiping their spears and knives clean. Doran searched their faces. All Oberyn's vipers lived.
"Arianne?"
Darkstar could not lift his eyes from the slate.
