THE SUNSPEAR - DORNE

Varys stepped to Prince Doran's side while the whole palace held its breath. His head canted, ever so slightly, at the unexpected reappearance of the man from the depths of the Black Cells. It was not the first time they had met nor, did Varys imagine, would it be the last. He had paid this ghost for a soul in Braavos so what was he doing here? Whatever his questions, Varys bit them back. He adopted a blank air of indifference toward Jaqen H'ghar who in turn treated him as a stranger.

Doran ignored them both, funnelling his panic toward Darkstar.

"Answer me!" Doran demanded of the Dayne. "Answer! Answer! Answer!" The last came with a strike to Darkstar's cheek. Doran was weak, barely raising a flush of colour to the skin.

"Your Grace," Jorah answered, when Darkstar kept a silent vigil. His voice was gravel, rumbling gently. "Princess Arianne is in the throne room – she did not survive the fight."

Anger welled so high in Doran's throat that it left his head wavering like a drunkard. He struck Darkstar again then cupped his hand as a tendon snapped. He felt nothing. Or was it everything at once? He could not discern night from day. Arianne was dead. "And Lord Yronwood?"

Jorah saw the shadow of a dragon in the prince's eyes. He'd never been more dangerous. "At large in the city. He fled with the last of his men when the palace fell."

"Find him..." Doran hissed, even though Jorah was not his to command. "And when you do, I want him alive and kneeling at my feet. This ends today."


The sun was heavy in the sky. It dragged the mountain's edge, low and orange with its rim obscured by a layer of warm air pressed into a ribbon above the uneven surface. Frost capped the red dirt in a pale reflection of snow. Opposite, three dragons swam in the sea with their long necks above the water, hemmed in by two fleets. The pirates had returned to their boats to count a sizeable pillage. Swords, armour and bags of gold were bartered on deck while their shadow – the queen's fleet, remained silent. Rows of Unsullied bordered the rail, watching the beach outside the Sunspear.

A few shy of six-hundred Yronwood soldiers were boxed in on all sides by a mixture of Doran's army, Dothraki savages, Unsullied and rogue pirates lingering for the show. The captives were arranged into rows, like the beads of a Braavosi abacus.

Lord Yronwood stood at their head. Bruises blackened on his face, fresh cuts scabbed around the edges and a cloud of flies hassled his wounds. He'd been stripped of his armour and sword – left as naked as a man of war could be. None of it tempered him. He eyed the Sunspear with a toxic mixture of lust and fury. The creature that lived in him would never die.

Repaired, the doors of the great city were left open to the desert where the defeated assembled. Their immensity dwarfed all in their shadow. To think, a few hours ago, they had flopped uselessly into the dirt.

"What theatre is this?" Whispered Varys, standing inline beside Tyrion. The queen's entourage took up one side – Doran's, the other. They were waiting for the Prince of Dorne to emerge from the city crypts. He'd kept them waiting for nearly an hour while he attended to his daughter, as was their way.

"No idea... The politics of war was always more your area." Tyrion admitted. "Though it is not like the Dornishmen to keep their enemies alive. If they live, custom dictates forgiveness." For his part, Tyrion would be happy to wage war somewhere with less fucking sand.

Varys took in the still of the city behind and the red sea rising up the beach. "Does this feel like forgiveness?"

There was no need for Tyrion to reply.

Daenerys had changed into ceremonial dress. Red silk brushed the sand at her feet held together with gold rings and exaggerated pins. A dragon brooch made of ruby was knitted through her hair like a breath of fire. Jorah stood beside her, fresh from battle. Like all the soldiers, his armour dripped with sweat. Others less fortunate, nursed unattended wounds. Those that could not stand were helped. All waited for their prince with ruthless loyalty.

Lord Yronwood's fate hung like the smoke in the air.

Prince Doran arrived as the edge of the sun touched the highest mountain, turning it black in silhouette. There wasn't a breath to be had in the crowd. Doran was carried through the sands by his guards – one thin arm on each of their shoulders. His face was drawn with a mixture of sorrow and vengeance. Dark stains hung under his eyes which were as red as the dragon queen's dress. His embellished robes dragged as he was set down in front of Lord Yronwood.

Quentyn watched the pair, both of whom had played the father.

All of Yronwood's men refused to kneel. They stood proud behind their lord, defiant. Previous princes offered false forgiveness and sent their aggressors back to the wiles to fester resentment. Already, reinforcements flying Martell banners had begun to spill down the dunes from neighbouring towns. Those fearful lords, unwilling to gamble on a victor, flocked to Doran Martell now that he had won. Prince Doran knew that this was the moment to cement the empire of Dorne in front of their eyes.

Quentyn and Doran's guards closed in. Doran remained a full length from Yronwood, wary of the lord. Before a word could be spoken, Yronwood spat at the prince. His wild, mountainous looks were struck with the shaft of Quentyn's spear. His skin split. Yronwood laughed and was hit again.

"What is Dorne?" Prince Doran asked, with an icy calm. Whatever Lord Yronwood had prepared himself for, this was not it. "Dorne is an idea." Doran proclaimed, speaking past Yronwood to the people. "Strength. Rebellion. Indulgence. Beauty. These are things that we create for ourselves. Pause for a moment and see the truth." Which Doran did, lifting his arms at the world that encircled the men. Dunes bore down on the city. A pair of deserts kissed at the beach and between them – nothing but a thin gasp of salty froth. "Dorne is built on sand. We are an empty land with our ships sunk beneath the waves, going to rot with the merfolk and drowned fools."

Anders' eyes burned with hatred that had been left unchecked for nearly a thousand years. It was bred into him. "That is the Dorne your slavers gave you... We are the kings, Doran and you, a crown-less consort of a foreign queen. Twice over." To Lord Yronwood, the silver-haired Targaryen and the Rhoynish whore were the same.

"Is that what you want, Anders – a crown? I could not give you one if I wanted to. Crowns are taken."

Daenerys felt her throat swell at Prince Doran's words. She knew exactly what it was to give a man a crown. Her brother wore such a gift in death. Beside her, Jorah brushed the handle of his sword.

"You are here because you have a small mind," Doran raised his hand and gestured to the silver queen. "She is here because there is a storm on the horizon and I intend to weather it with iron and fire as our ancestors did."

"You always were full of shit and flowery words." Yronwood extended to his full height then glanced at his kin. Blood of the First Men lived in their souls. One more step, Doran, that's all it'd take. "That daughter of yours, I hear she's laying in the crypt beneath your ruined palace – I should have taken her first. Laid her out over the stone. A waste. She reminds me of her mother. Whatever happened to Mellario?"

Everything boiled in Prince Doran. He reached for Yronwood but Yronwood was free of the rope around his wrists which he'd wound tightly between his hands. He hooked the twine over the back of Doran's neck in a single lunge. Yronwood's immense force dragged the prince down into the sand. Yronwood crushed the writhing snake so hard that the rope sliced through the flesh on his neck leaving it bloody. The prince's guards were on them immediately but Yronwood held fast until that final shudder died in Doran's lungs. When the ropes were untied, Doran's head was found to be almost severed. The Bloodroyal could have sworn Doran died with a smile on his lips.

"Hold him! Hold him!" Quentyn screamed, as the guards pulled Yronwood off Doran's corpse. Martell's soldiers unsheathed their swords and brandished them at the unarmed warriors, forcing them to their knees.

Quentyn bent to his father. Tenderly, he unwrapped the rope and tossed it to the side then manoeuvred Doran's head so that the worst of the wounds were hidden. He reached for the clasp on his cloak, snapped it free and laid it over his father's body. His attention shifted to Lord Yronwood.

"You've made a mistake..." Quentyn hissed. "My father intended to let your men return to the mountains. You were enough to sate his appetite for vengeance. Mine? I could drown the seas..."

Jorah's arm grazed protectively in front of Daenerys as the new Prince of Dorne took Lord Yronwood's head slowly with the end of a spear. She, in turn, lifted her hand ever so slightly to signal her army. Whatever the barbarity, for the moment she was prepared to let it play out.

"I'm going to be sick," Varys murmured, as Yronwood's head was held aloft. It was so fresh the Spider was sure he saw the eyes blink.

"This is nothing," Tyrion replied. "Flesh peeling off men while they are still alive – shadows of ash in the shape of screaming children... Our new Prince Quentyn is a calculated man. Watch."

"Sometimes I think you forget that I was there when the Mad King burned a Stark alive."

"You're right," Tyrion agreed, "sometimes I forget who you truly are, Lord Varys."

With two bodies left on the dirt, Quentyn directed his bile to the remainder of Yronwood's army. A general raised his head and demanded forgiveness now that their lord was dead.

"It is yours..." Quentyn assured him. Holding his spear in one hand, the prince offered the general the other in peace. The general reached forward, following custom. Their hands clasped together. Prince Quentyn's grip was firm – near bruising. "At a price..."

Too late, the general saw the spear come down. Its blade was thin and sharp, slipping through his wrist with a viscous thrust from Quentyn. The general screamed in shock, stumbling backwards into the arms of his men, clutching a fresh stump.

Quentyn held the severed hand aloft for the men to see. "Take the right hand of every man," he ordered his army, as the limb dripped like tears on the desert. "Throw them into sand around the walls so that all who pass understand – if you raise a sword against the Prince of Dorne, that hand will never hold a sword again."


Hundreds of bodies had been removed from the palace and surrounding streets and thrown in pyres lit outside the walls of the city. Their fires caressed the night early throws of night. The citizens grew brazen, filing out into the sand to toss furniture and rubbish onto the bonfires, feeding their flames. With swathes of the city destroyed, the armies made camp on the beach, encircling the Sunspear like a painted veil. The pirates were not so keen. They kept to the waters, uneasy with the soldiers while their captain watched the city twinkle in the darkness.

Daenerys entered the throne room alone.

Prince Quentyn lingered in front of the gilded chair. Its velvet cushion was stained with his sister's blood and the floor surrounding it coated in powdered steel from the destroyed sword. All of Dorne was his and yet Quentyn would trade everything to start today again. He understood what his father had done. Doran was a genius to the end though it would take the realm a while to appreciate the extent of his sacrifice. Even the Targaryen queen danced to Doran's song. Quentyn could hear her words before she uttered them.

"Do not bother with apologies," Quentyn said, as the silver dragon approached the base of the steps. "You owe me none. What you have is a question, am I right?" He turned and caught acknowledgement on her face. She dipped her head to him. "My tragedy is advantageous for your cause. With Yronwood and his supporters gone, the wavering houses have flocked to my banner. There's no need to waste gold and barter passage North – I own the North. Well..." He trailed off. "...as North as you can claim at the Southern tip of Westeros."

Daenerys glanced at the partially collapsed throne room. She'd seen the Iron Throne in a place more ruined than this. The Dornish throne would endure the upheaval but the fate of Westeros was less certain.

"What is obvious to me and your advisors is that I can no longer accompany you in the siege of King's Landing."

"You have a kingdom to run," Daenerys agreed. "A volatile one, fresh from war. Staying here protects your family and your claim."

Family? Quentyn thought. His brother and sister were dead. His father too. Only his mother remained but she was as real to him as a dream. Norvos may as well have been another name for Death. "My word is my honour, dragon queen," Quentyn assured her. He was oddly calm despite his focus on the empty throne. "You'll have a guide to replace me. He is more than capable with a deeper mastery of war than I'll ever know. His moods are difficult but he'll ensure you arrive at the gates of King's Landing, spoiling for a fight."

That was fair so she dipped her head. She'd been prepared for retaliation for the loss of his father and sister but Quentyn's rage had been spent on the soldiers. "The Dayne... You want me to trust the fate of my crown to their line after what happened?"

"A disaffected Dayne," Quentyn assured her. "One that was in love with my sister – though he'll never admit as much despite how painfully obvious he was about it every time he sulked into the city. He has no affection for the Yronwood cause now that she is dead." Quentyn shook his head. "Like me, he'll never forgive their house for that, nor will he forget. Let him spend his anger somewhere useful. The family sword on loan to you is his when you are finished with it – on my honour I have sworn as much to assure his help in this cause."

"And you?" There was genuine concern on her face. "There are enemies here in Dorne. Without my army..."

"Did you not see the dunes as night fell? Vast numbers approach to support my cause and if I may, I am not my father. Fear not, silver queen. The Martells are not done with this world."

However lingered between them. "Our engagement..."

"I must marry and produce heirs to cement my reign. I no longer have time to play politics with the future. I am sorry. You have my support, my men but you cannot have what you seek." The silver queen's face dropped in disappointment. He descended the slate steps. "I remember when I first saw you."

"At the house with the red door?"

Despite all that had happened, Prince Quentyn managed a smile. "No indeed. I was sailing into Braavos. You were on dragon-back, tearing the ghastly walls of the Iron Bank to shreds and I thought, 'Here is the dawn...' Somehow you find order in the chaos. My father was right. You have power beyond your understanding. We have stood shoulder to shoulder with dragons. Dorne is not afraid of fire or blood."


"How was the prince?" Jorah asked, falling into step beside the queen as she trailed through the corridor carrying the delicate bracelet from Quentyn's wrist.

"Oddly calm," Daenerys replied, comforted by the clink of full plate armour beside her. She explained the change in circumstance to her knight.

"As long as the Dayne is trustworthy, you are stronger than before. Quentyn is an asset to you on the throne and he wields greater control than his father. We can expect more warriors on thrones."

"No. Violence always leads to unpredictable outcomes. We don't have to pay our way through the mountains but we may end up in a fight all the same. As might Quentyn, if he is not very careful. Every noble hungry for a crown will be at his gates. He's a boy, not a king. Quentyn was made for war – the throne won't suit him. What is it?"

Jorah felt that she was speaking of herself. "The pirate fleet, Your Grace," Jorah continued, as they walked. "They are moored in the bay. Our forces are keeping an eye on them but they seem content to await an audience with you."

"Daario."

"He's rowing a boat to shore as we speak. I thought perhaps you'd like to meet with him alone."

Jorah was not insensitive to their history. They were lovers, there was no secret in that and Daario had been gone for so long. There were things that they needed to say to each other. Where Jorah stood with the queen now that Daario had returned was a mystery. He had no wish to press an answer yet.

"I must change," he gestured at his armour. "Then I will take you to Daario Naharis."


It was decided to keep all contact with the pirates under the strictest confidence.

They were a rare unknown in a long played game and Varys wisely wished to keep it that way. Their enemies would be aware of the pirate presence in the battle but as yet, no one knew why they had arrived in Dorne – if it was opportunistic or planned – if they belonged to Dorne or themselves. At the very least it would set a fresh wave of whispers rife on the realm.

Daario waited in one of the tunnels that faced onto the sea. The moon was somewhere on the other side of the city shedding the faintest halo on the surface. The tide had risen, inching up the walls until it spilled over the ground, flooding tiny molluscs that made their home in the cavern. The steady roll of the waves and soft squawks of seagulls nesting in the wall reminded him of Yin. Daario had been made for the water.

A rustle drew his attention to the depths of the tunnel. From the darkness, a lantern approached with the soft splash of feet. He pushed himself off the wall and turned to face the queen.

He is not the same man Daenerys realised, as she took in Daario's appearance. His thick belts and layers of jewellery were finished with a gaudy, enormous sword that made him appear shorter. Valyrian steel. Who must he have slain to possess such a thing? A heavy beard was stained with salt crystals and his wavy hair shone with grease. He'd pulled it back into a tie revealing scars a dark tan accentuated. One of his eyes, damaged in a fight, was nearly black where the pupil swelled to fill the void. He looked every inch the wild pirate.

Daario lowered himself, kneeling into the cool water on the tunnel floor. A pirate king would never kneel to a Westerosi queen but he did, dipping his head without reservation to Daenerys.

"It is you, then..." Daenerys whispered. Her flame flickered inside its glass prison. "I was not certain."

"Ay, Your Grace," Daario replied softly. He had a Northern edge to his words. "I have brought Viserion home to you. He followed when the Dothraki horselords sold me into slavery."

"You were a slave?" She stepped closer. More than his appearance had changed. His lips were stained blue from Shade of the Evening. Daenerys wondered if he had gone mad on the waves or if, like many, he drank it to dull the terror in the world.

"For a time. Then a prisoner. I was bartered and dragged across The White Ranges and set upon ships in Old Ghis. I thought I had seen every depravity the world held but then-" Daario's eyes were haunted.

"And now a pirate?"

"The laws of the sea are simpler than Westeros." He returned to his feet. Water poured off his clothes. "I killed their queen and took her place." He had forgotten, if that were possible, how beautiful Daenerys was. The lamplight and water made the violet in her eyes glow. Dressed in red and half-hidden by shadow in the tunnel, she was as much a dream to him now as she had been on the waves. It was impossible to return to where they left. Those people were gone.

"Pirate law is not so different but I don't understand, what brought you here? Dorne is on the other side of the world from where we last met."

"I came here for you..." he whispered, leaning closer.

"Daario-"

"My name is not Daario." He withdrew with his confession. "That old bear of yours, surely creature that he is, was right not to trust me. He has an uncanny nose for betrayal and that is what I intended – a lifetime ago. I can barely remember Yunkai or those feckless captains I threw at your feet. All I knew in those days was that a young girl wandered out of the desert with a hoard of savages and three dragons. I wanted those dragons more than anything and you were their mother. I want them still but I have come to learn that dragons cannot be owned, stolen, traded or ransomed. Viserion..." He was wistful as he thought of the winged creature. "He taught me many things."

Daenerys felt the walls of the sea tunnel close in on her. She was alone. Ser Jorah and all her men waited in the palace above. How foolish she was to trust. She'd learned nothing. "I don't understand. What are you trying to tell me? That you pledged yourself to me – bedded me – fought my wars – for my dragons?"

"Daenerys, I am trying to tell you that I did not become a pirate on the waters of the Jade Sea. I was born one. Raised as one. Lived as one. I pay the iron price. I take and I kill what I cannot possess. My name haunts the seas and lives there, even when I took leave of its choppy embrace to seek out a dragon queen. For a moment, Daenerys, you allowed me to forget my name. I believed in you. I watched a girl climb onto Drogon's back and in that moment, you became a god made flesh."

Her gaze hardened. She was surrounded by liars. "Who are you?"

"Your Grace – Daenerys... I am Euron Greyjoy, brother of Lord Balon and heir to the Iron Islands but the world knows me as a demon so for the moment, I have kept this name to myself."

For the longest time they said nothing. Their only comfort was the constant crash of waves pushing deeper into the cave. Despite his lies, a part of Daenerys wished to vanish into his arms and remember their warmth. There had to be something tangible beneath his deceit. In a moment of bravery, Daenerys set her lantern on a hook in the wall and moved bravely toward Euron.

"Every child has heard your name, even a dragon raised in Braavos..." she whispered, ridding herself of fear. This was the same man that pledged his sword to her and she believed him, perhaps more than he believed himself. "You could have tipped the battle against me and ransacked the city – taken the Sunspear for yourself – kept Viserion, for he certainly has affection for you. Instead, you took your hoard of pirates and helped crush Yronwood's men. You placated your pirates with common robbery but what, Lord Greyjoy," she used his real name again, "is it that you want from me? Daario asks and Euron takes. You have done neither."

No tears, Euron noticed. His queen had moved beyond them. "I have seen things," he murmured, leaning toward the queen. She was close enough that her perfume caught the air. His sword scraped against the wall while all the adornments hanging from his neck knocked together. Shells. Gold. Jewels. They rattled like bones. "The dead walked on Yin that day. Burned it to the ground. Can you imagine it? The greatest city in the world abandoned as ash."

"You were there..."

"Whatever is rising in the world," he continued, "there will be nothing left of it to plunder if we run and hide. Quaithe-"

"You've seen her?"

"She is aboard my ship. Daenerys..." This time, Euron took her hand – dragging it against his chest as he used to do. Her fingertips met the rough weave of his shirt. "I know what you have seen in your dreams. We sailed through Old Valyria," he watched her eyes widen, "into the smoke. We've filled our hull with Valyrian steel for your war and in those mists, there were faces of those yet to die and others that could not."

"You would not smile if you knew what I dreamed," Daenerys breathed.

Euron used his free hand to cup her pale cheek softly. "Your Grace, you will always make me smile." He stepped away when she pushed closer. "This act does not amend my general savagery. You and I have done unspeakable things. My decks are painted red from them. Gods know what we might do together."

Daenerys watched him pace all the way to the edge of the cave. He longed to be back aboard his ship. "Varys has a plan, if you accept but it will require you to be, 'Daario' a little longer."

"Is that spider still scheming?"

"Always... Although in truth, I'm not sure he'd want me to pursue this – knowing who you are. I disagree. Euron – Daario. You are the same flesh that stood beside me in Yunkai. If you succeed, your pirates will have something to sink their golden teeth into and if you are a Lord of Westeros, I am still your queen."

"I'm listening..."


Varys and the thin man met in one of the many abandoned rooms within the palace. Once inside, Varys closed the door and fled to its centre where he spent a good few minutes contemplating the assassin. He hated when one of his silken threads fell out of place.

"I am surprised... I did not anticipate another meeting," he admitted. "This is the third time I have thought this yet here you are."

Jaqen strolled calmly toward the coals smouldering in the fireplace. It was the only light in the dark but it was nearly finished – moments from passing into smoke. It did just that, hissing into death leaving the room near pitch. "Things do not always turn out as we expect. A man finds himself without a face."

"As far as the world is concerned, you and I have never met," Varys insisted firmly, then added sharply. "I paid you to go North." He was deeply mistrustful of a Faceless Man sniffing around a dragon queen. For all their protests, he was certain ancient revenge throbbed in those veins. "What business do you have in Dorne?"

"None," Jaqen replied quickly. "Your ships were the fastest way to Westeros. A man was on his way North to take a life when the fighting broke. What good is a name to god if the man who uttered it is dead?"

"So you saved me?"

"And now a man must leave." Jaqen turned to go but Varys was fast, circling to place his body between Jaqen and the door.

"How?" Varys asked. "How did you join our crew? You must have taken a face. Which face?"

Jaqen sized Varys. The man was larger than his tone suggested – broad shouldered, tall and strong. He could have been a knight if the gods hadn't taken his balls first. "You call this face, Missandei."


Outside the door, Tyrion ground his forehead against the surface and closed his eyes. His tears burned onto the wood. Missandei. Of course she was dead. Since Braavos. All this time her gentle words had been his. Tyrion felt sick. His hands shook. He rolled his body from the door to the freezing wall and bit back a howl.


Quaithe turned to the shadow on the water. The pirate ship loomed large above her tiny row boat with its sails flapping near-death against the masts. She listened to the slap of the paddles in the water, beating their way closer to the shore.

The bloodstone. She felt its loss keenly as the distance increased. Quaithe pleaded – begged Daario to relinquish possession of it but all he'd say to her demands was, 'Not yet... Not yet..."


"A Lannister begging at my door..." Prince Quentyn admitted the sand-haired lion.

It was forbidden for kings to mourn so Quentyn wrapped himself in gold silks. His splendour was marred by stains where his fresh wounds leaked into the fabric. Quentyn let his blood flow as a way to honour the dead.

Tyrion bowed his head. "My apologies, disturbing you. Especially after... I have a small request. You have no reason to grant it but I implore you."


The boat crunched against the sand. Quaithe stepped out and lifted a prayer to the stars. Westeros greeted her with a thousand whispered screams. Here, the trees had faces and the dead, throats with which to howl. A crow landed on the shore. Its three eyes glinted with the glow from a pyre. Sickening smoke left the air foul.

Death. Westeros had the stink of it.


Tyrion set the bottle of wine on the mantle while he shoved a poker into the coals. Flames reignited and gushed against the stone as the kindling caught. The glow reached all the way to the corners of the room where Varys lingered like a cowering sea creature. After, Tyrion worked his way to every lantern until theirs was the brightest window in the city, shining in the darkness. Beneath, he caught sight of the carpet of stars where the armies slept. He wondered how a congregation of violent men could appear so beautiful. Peaceful, even. Were the stars violent too?

"Do you have a name?" Tyrion addressed the stranger, standing between himself and Varys.

Jaqen had been on his way out when Tyrion intruded, swaggering in with a bottle of wine. Varys' mind raced beneath his black eyes, calculating what he could get away with – waiting for Jaqen to take the lead.

"One must have a name to raise a glass to," Tyrion added, pouring the wine cheerfully into a pair of goblets. He did not offer any to Varys. "Here." The man nodded but was reluctant to take the glass. "Go on then, to whom do we owe our thanks? If it weren't for you, that brooding Dayne and the Queen's knight we'd be corpses in the sea." Silence. "Can he speak the Common Tongue?"

Varys stepped forward, his hands buried in his sleeves. "This man is a private sellsword, between companies."

"A sellsword?" Tyrion marvelled at Varys' lies. He delivered them with such candour that even now Tyrion was tempted to believe. "How very unlike your nature to become embroiled in the city's affairs without promise of coin."

"The new Prince has generously offered payment for my trouble." Jaqen replied, wisely dropping his Braavosi manners. "Now I must excuse myself. Lord Varys. Lord Tyrion." He bowed deeply to both then moved to leave. The imp pressed a glass of wine against his abdomen. "Ah." Jaqen relieved Tyrion of the glass and lifted it. "To the new prince of Dorne – and your queen, of course."

Jaqen's lips hovered near the rim of the goblet, watched keenly by the others. Varys held his nerve, hoping the gesture might placate whatever strange, post-battle trauma had manifested in the Lannister. Tyrion, calm, lay in wait. The Faceless Man hesitated. He inhaled. Deep. Salt. Jaqen smiled.

"Odd choice, for a Lannister." Jaqen dropped his pretence at the scent of poison. There was no use for it. "I cannot decide. Was your intent to send a man mad or test him?"

Tyrion emptied his own cup of wine into the fire. The bottle too. Varys watched, panic rising. Did Tyrion know? What did he know?

"Basilisk venom requires skill." Jaqen continued. "One which you do not possess, Lord Tyrion. Wine is a terrible vessel for such things."

"When I kill you," Tyrion assured Jaqen, "it will be with my hands around your throat."

Varys edged closer. "Tyrion wait..." he attempted to move between the them but the imp shoved Varys into a nearby chair. It tipped over, throwing Varys onto the ground.

"I knew I'd seen you before," Tyrion continued, focused on the man. "It was a long time ago but I used to watch my father march men into the Black Cells. I wondered how long it would be until I ended up in their depths. It happened. I've lived in their depths amid the rank and horror. Is that where you met Varys? He was fond of prowling in the shadows." Tyrion turned to Varys. "Do you make a habit of recruiting criminals?"

"When it serves," Varys drawled, righting the chair.

"I know what you are and I know that Lord Varys paid for your service, all I want to know is where Missandei is... Well? Where is she?"

Instead of answering, Jaqen reached up to his neck, found the edge of skin where his magic faltered and pealed away his face revealing the kind eyes of Missandei.

Tyrion stumbled, knocking over a stand that held their glasses. It crashed against the floor. Even Varys gripped his chair at the beastly sight of Missandei's face stitched onto the man's body. Everything was there. Her beauty. The tiny scratch across her cheek from the jungle. It was her. It was also a ghost. This man wore her like a mask as if she was worth nothing. Well, she was worth more than that to Tyrion. He lifted his hand, brandishing his rage. "You – you stop that!"

A moment later Missandei was gone and Jaqen remained. A slight of hand.

"...and Grey Worm?"

"The Unsullied general?" Jaqen asked. "He followed the one named Missandei. Asked questions."

"So – you murdered them both."

"Death is a gift."

Tyrion launched himself at the assassin. His passion made up for the ridiculous assumption that he might better the warrior.

"Tyrion no!" Varys was up, gripping the imp's shoulders. He tried to pull him off Jaqen. A chair went backwards. One of the lanterns smashed onto the stone and set a patch of carpet alight. Jaqen threw Tyrion to the ground. He rolled over the fire, extinguishing it with his body until he hit the stone wall beneath the window. Tyrion clutched his chest, coughing up the wind stuck in his lungs. He went to lash out again but Varys kneeled on the ground and took his head in his enormous hands. His fingers slipped on the tears he found there. "Tyrion, listen to me!"

"You're a traitor, Varys!" Tyrion hissed. He found an off-cut of wood – perhaps a statue, and slammed it into the side of Varys' head. The Spider's skin tore above his eye. Blood ran down onto his cheek but he kept a firm hold of Tyrion.

Behind them, Jaqen calmly clasped his hands behind his back and shifted to the fire.

"No one's a traitor, Tyrion," Varys fended off his attacks until he laid still against the wall. "Whatever you might think you know, you have it wrong."

"Varys, did you not see? Missandei is dead. Grey Worm too. What do you think our Queen is going to do when she finds out?"

Real fear crossed Varys' face. "Missandei was an accident," the Spider whispered. "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Inside the House of Black and White. Only the gods know what she was doing going in there in the first place. What did she imagine would happen in a den of murderers?"

Tyrion's throat caught. He remembered back to that day – he and Missandei, waiting on the steps of the Iron Bank while Varys vanished into Braavos. "I asked her to follow you..." Tyrion whispered.

"You should not have done that."

"Forget the assassin..." Tyrion scrambled to his feet, his eyes locked with Varys. "What were you doing? There's only one reason a man pays a visit to the assassins of Braavos. You wanted someone killed."

"I did it for the realm."

"For the realm? For the realm. Your eternal mantra, Varys. WHOSE NAME DID YOU PAY FOR?"

"Sh... Seven hells!" Varys tried to hush him.

"Was it the queen's?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I gave up everything for Daenerys Targaryen. You are going to have to trust me. What I did – what I paid for, it is for her – at great personal cost. And now we must let this man go so that he can take the name owed to his god." Varys looked back toward the room but Jaqen had slipped away while they fought.

Varys let go of the imp and ended up on the floor himself. His careful web of lies lay decimated by a single truth – one, he feared, he could not hide. Not without Tyrion's help.

Tyrion screamed and threw another lantern across the room where it shattered into a thousand pieces. Light swelled again until the flames tied. Tears welled afresh at the edges of his eyes. They began to fall, unchecked, as he laid back against the wall in defeat. He could not separate Missandei's eyes from Shae's. "I knew something was wrong," he whispered. "With Missandei. She has no one to say prayers over her body. She deserved better."

"Missandei died today in the city," Varys insisted, already spinning a fresh web. "That is the story we will tell the queen. We bury her in Dorne. Say the sacred words. We cannot let her tragic death unravel everything that we have worked for."

"Did you know?"

Varys shook his head. "No..." And here was a fragment of honesty. "I did not know."

"But you guessed." Despite the emotion overwhelming his heart, Tyrion was a rational, calculating man like his father. He was beginning to see Varys' point and he hated himself for it. "And the name you paid for..."

"I cannot tell you," Varys insisted. "No – I trust you sober," he added, when Tyrion challenged him, "but I never trust a man when he's been on the wine. I have one opportunity. One. If they are allowed to live our queen will surely find herself on the edge of a blade. I'm asking you. Begging you. For our queen. For the realm. Tyrion, trust me."

Tyrion seriously considered the poisoned wine left in Jaqen's goblet. He must have drifted toward it for Varys reached it first and tossed it into the fire.

"Don't lose your mind in grief."

"I don't want to hear any more from you tonight..." Tyrion stalked towards the corner of the room. "I want you to bring me a fresh bottle of wine and leave me alone."

Varys nodded, cautiously hopeful that Tyrion intended to keep his secret.


Varys searched the palace for the Mormont knight and found him lingering at the entrance to the sea-tunnels, braving the faint odour of dried fish and scented smoke to wait for his queen. The lower levels of the palace were dark with lanterns dragging against the mottled walls, barely carved out of the bedrock. Some dead sea had wandered higher over the land and left behind fossilised shells in the rock. They twinkled against the stone in the uneasy lamplight.

"Mormont," Varys announced his presence, aware that he had a habit of startling those in dark places. "I take it the queen is still speaking with our new pirate lord?"

"She is." Every now and then he caught the whisper of voices on the air. If anything were amiss, he'd hear. Jorah instantly noticed the dark bruise and viscous cut running across the bald head. It was fresh. "You have news – bad news from the look of you."

"My little birds have brought word on Missandei. She was caught, they say, when Yronwood's men found the tunnels beneath the city. The Stark girl confirmed that they were hiding when the slaughter began. Arya slipped away – Missandei did not. There is no body," Varys added, more softly, "but I have half a dozen eyes that swear her corpse was taken by the ocean." He lingered awkwardly, troubled by something he had not yet said.

"...and..." The great bear prompted.

"...and one of the dragons fed on her." Varys finished, constructing his horrific lie.

The features in Jorah's face tightened. "That last part – you keep that to yourself, Spider."

Varys dipped his head low. "Of course." And just like that, Missandei was washed away from the world. He turned his attention to the entrance to the cave. "Daario... I cannot believe that man is alive after all this time. There is one thing that you could say of him, he is a survivor."

Jorah was obviously still working Missandei's death over. "Do you think he'll accept your plan?"

"I could not say," Varys admitted. "Daario always did as he pleased. It is in his favour to accept especially if he wants to keep his fleet of pirates. They are fickle creatures."

"Those fickle things followed him through the cursed waters of Old Valyria... I spoke to a few of them. They are not all as savage as you suppose. Most are traders driven to poverty by the recent wars, both in Westeros and Essos. A great many more fled the plagues we saw ravage Meereen. It's an interesting mix he has sailing under his flag. One whose loyalties will be difficult to anticipate."

"I am aware of the challenges regarding the pirate fleet. Since they arrived in Dornish waters I've thought of little else."

"The Queen is not going to take the news of Missandei well," Jorah warned.

"She will take it like a queen, I am sure," Varys replied, slinking back into the shadows.


Tyrion found the Stark girl practising her swordsmanship against the assassin. He was strolling around the palace like the saviour of the city. Jaqen lowered his sword when Tyrion appeared.

"Lady Stark," Tyrion ignored the assassin, "may we speak in private?"

Arya approached. She twirled her sword as she followed him.

"I have something to tell you..." Tyrion told her of Missandei.

"I know," Arya shrugged the information off. "The other one, with the bald head, he was here."

Tyrion hesitated. Was Arya part of the lies?

"Everyone who tries to take care of me dies. You should be careful, Lord Tyrion."

"I owe it to your sister to see you safely back to Winterfell. I am your brother, in name and honour." He tried to find some of Sansa in Arya but the two sisters could not be further apart. Sansa was a born ruler – the future of the North. His father was right to respect the power she commanded. It made him sick to think of her locked in Bolton's grasp and now Littlefinger. He was no less dangerous. Arya? Arya had more in common with the murderer in the other room. Her eyes were dark and her will, darker still. She was a true wolf that had to be returned to the North or he feared the old gods might rise in vengeance. "There are worse men that she could have married."

Arya dragged her blade across the floor. "She murdered her last husband," Arya whispered. "You really should take care..."

Perhaps Sansa and Arya were more alike than he realised.


"A man must go now," Jaqen said, as their swords met. They sparred well into the night in the ruins of the palace. Arya was a few inches taller and stronger, striking his weapon with fervour. She hit him harder as he repeated the words. Yes, he must go and she must make her own way for a while. "Do you think this is the end?" Their blades clashed. "A girl is angry." Crash. "A girl is afraid."

Jaqen's sword flew from his hand and rolled over the ground. He held his hands up in mock defeat. She stared, circling him. No, a man was wrong. The girl was neither of those things. He reached forward and gripped the blade of her sword. She was startled by the blood that ran from his palm and dripped onto the floor. It welled between the cracks in the slate, rising like the tide. She tried to move but even the slightest tremble caused Needle to cut deeper.

"I know your secret. A girl has a name," Jaqen whispered, kneeling down so that they were eye to eye with the sword between them, "and she can't forget it. It is okay. No one is truly nothing..."

"Jaqen..."

He let go of her sword. A moment later her was gone. Arya doubted that they'd meet again and if they did, he'd keep is face from here. There was power in a name and she knew his. Arya wiped his blood from her blade – the only tangible remnant of her Faceless Man.


Tyrion's raging mind dragged him down into the depths of the palace. He walked through the tunnels, barely noticing as they frequently opened to the sea with a glow of moonlight cutting shadows across his face. The bruises deepened. Wine stained his clothes where it had splashed up from the fire. He wallowed in his thoughts of Missandei. His mind was haunted by her face, hanging on a stone wall. Her eyes, hollow. Her smile curled on the lips of an assassin. He wondered if Grey Worm had faced Missandei's kind eyes on the other end of a blade. Did she feet him to the monsters in the river and leaving him screaming in the depths? They were part of the labyrinth of silent horrors the sands hid from view.

He sealed his lips shut and curled up in one of the caves. Tyrion whispered vile, murderous thoughts to the sea gods. Only they were terrible enough to revel in his words. He prayed to them. Begged them to bring their wrath upon the men without faces. To tear their ancient house apart and scatter their faces in the sea.


Jorah found Daenerys wandering the tunnel. The waters of the rising sea lapped around their knees – cool and pink, lit from beneath by a swell of tiny creatures that fluoresced in the dark.

Daenerys unhooked her lantern from the wall and turned to the approaching bear. "He agreed to Varys' plan. Daario has returned to his fleet to organise an exchange of arms. He's brought Valyrian steel from the ruined city – a gift and in exchanged I've asked for some of the dragonglass to be sent to his men. They will be needing it."

Jorah nodded, more interested in what she had not said. "Daario has been at sea for a long time," Jorah started carefully.

"Are you asking if he is a pirate or my captain?" Her words sharp words slapped the air.

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Both – neither..." she admitted. "Daario is many things but I believe he will honour our arrangement. For the moment that will have to suffice. He'll sail with the tide. The longer he lingers here, the more people will suspect our alliance. Everything will be done before the sun rises."

Jorah carefully reached for the queen's arm. He placed his hand on her pearl skin, offering her a moment of comfort. She adopted a facade of steel. "He brought you Viserion..." Jorah whispered. "I – I was wrong about Daario," he added quietly. "He was loyal to you, always – to your cause and to your crown. If he says he'll honour this deal of Varys' I believe him."

Daenerys pressed her hand against the one he had on her arm. She wanted to tell him the truth about Daario but feared his rage. Instead, she let the lantern fall into the water and turned entirely into his arms. Jorah held her against his chest. Her hands fisted in his shirt while her face hid. The waters of Dorne lapped at their legs and in the darkness, lowered his lips to the top of her head, kissing her silver hair.

"Missandei?" She whispered.

Jorah tensed against her and Daenerys had her answer.