THE THOUSAND ISLANDS – ESSOS

Bu Gai struggled for breath. Ice in the air cut through his lungs while the strip of cloth wrapped around his waist was drawn tighter every day by the witches. They drowned the fabric in scented oil and layered Ghostgrass against his skin. It burned right to his soul. Despite their foul chanting his sickness festered. Bu Gai was dying, slain more than a month ago by the creature from Yin. He was an emperor without an empire. The walking dead in a twilight world. He was hope.

To his left, dark water ate away at the shore. Pieces of broken ice lay over stones, unable to melt – pushed up and down by the tide. Fragments of ruined ships – bleached wood, shreds of canvas and glass were all wedged between the rocks in a graveyard of North-Eastern trade. Ahead, the beach curved to reveal the first of the Thousand Islands.

They came into focus, looming behind the sea mist like spectres. Bu Gai narrowed his eyes at the horizon. Shadows upon shadows. Jagged peaks. Knobs of rock blanketed in Ironwood forests with their ink-blue leaves rustling in a false sea. Abandoned surges of rock curved like a dragon's spine. It went on – island after island after island.

"The gods live here..." Lorath exhaled, as the fog cleared. Which gods he did not know.

He could see the crack in the cliff where the mainland of Mossovy had broken away from the Thousand Islands. Clinging to the edge of the collapsing ridge were buildings made from black stone. Most had crumbled into the water, beached as ruins and coated in oil but a few of their misshapen forms survived. They reared right to the edge of the cliff, tilting toward the drop.

Lorath was the first to approach. He found a fragment of rock as long as a ship, fallen on its side with one end submerged in the freezing waves. It was a tentacle of impossible size, curled over itself, perfectly carved as though it were sawn off a titan living in the depths. Another waited ahead then more, all the way down the beach.

He stopped at the waterline and faced into the wind. This, he thought, is the heart of a city. It lay in the islands, torn apart by an unimaginable event. The green-skinned inhabitants were probably remnants of those people, poisoned by the magic that destroyed them.

One of the women among Bu Gai's followers knew the area. She was old and scrambled over the beach ahead of the party with her walking stick striking the rocks. Every now and then she pointed to things, growling at Bu Gai who nodded and waved the rest of their caravan on. She led them to the first island. As the tide drew out, a thin land bridge emerged which they were able to walk across. The ground was slippery, covered in a layer of purple seaweed and stewed Ironwood leaves. Malformed fish flopped about, gasping. They had extra tails, no fins, eyes embedded along their spines... Every imaginable terror.

No one spoke as they stepped onto the oil-slicked beach of the first island. At any moment they might be set upon by the violent locals who were known to make live sacrifices to their watery gods. They were the things of sailors' nightmares.

This island, like Nefer was abandoned. A wild series of shattered rock towered to their right in false mountains. Strange marine grass and vibrant orange flowers covered the formations except where lesions of stone protruded, melted into the bedrock. Lorath wandered toward the sweeping jetties on their left where Ibbenese ships waited.

"Either they are dead or hiding in the central islands..." Lorath said."A man wonders what they hide from, for we are nothing to fear." He added, fixing his eyes on the sea beyond.

Empty and sea worthy, the boats were inundated. They loosened the sails and cast off the ropes. As the tide drew out further their ships were drawn into the dangerous harbour. Lorath kept his eyes at the centre of the islands, waiting for a flicker of life but only the mists shifted. This was the farthest corner of the word and yet there, barely a breath away, lay another tide of secrets.

The forms of enormous statues clung to the edges of the fog, tempting Lorath with their whispers. The ancient gods of the sea had come here to die... Lorath thought. Their restless souls haunted the shallow pools of water between the shattered rock and the curious, reptile-like people fed their despair with foreign blood. He recorded what he could, sketching onto strips of parchment as their fleet of ships abandoned the wasteland. There were no birds to send his words so he kept them.

Even the water, usually a perfect imitation of sapphire, drank in all the light. Its surface turned to shale as they reached deep water. The shoreline remained visible while they sailed West but it was swiftly fading into a blur of shadows. To their right lay the vast unknown and somewhere, directly in front, the lands of Always Winter. Thousands of miles of open water and several free cities of Essos lay between them and the wastelands of ice.

Reality hit Lorath for the first time. They were sailing into a war on the command of a dragon's dreams. He wasn't a man of war. He was a poet. A traveller at best. He was going to die before the first arrow.

Bu Gai draped a shawl over the man from Lorath and pointed toward the first block of ice. Lorath nodded politely and pulled the thick fabric around his freezing limbs. What looked like a small protrusion of ice from a distance evolved into a monstrous floating island, gleaming in the sun. The ship navigated around it, passing close enough that Lorath thought he might touch it. The ice had partially melted. Where it was thin and transparent, Lorath could see a distorted view of the sky through its shell and where it was thickest, the ice was the strangest shade of blue. A few gulls slept on its top, stirring in the sun.

There was chatter among those able to sail. Many of them were experienced sea captains but they were used to hauling trade across the warm waters – not battling Winter herself in rough, uncharted seas. Men hung off the front of the ship, searching the horizon for chunks of ice bobbing in the water, lumbering along like bears in the snow. Small ones grazed against the hull constantly, growling as the ships pushed them to the side. The Ibbenese boats were made of local Ironwood that was as dense as steel and withstood the constant bombardment.

Lorath wasn't looking for bergs in the water. His mind was full of stories – of sea creatures made of black stone. Things that lived in the depths that once walked the forests taking humans as lovers and food. For six days he slept on deck, holding lanterns to the water during the depths of night when walls of floating ice towered above Bu Gai's fleet. Some arched right over the ship, dripping onto their decks. Lorath's halo of flame flickered weakly against the white surface. All of these monsters had broken away from the same ice flow.

At night, the web of stars was bright. Bu Gai emerged and laid down, staring at the heavens. His people communed with the stars and read the future in their pearl strings. For them, life was created by a moon crashing into the West where fire spilled into a barren land of ice. Lorath lay beside and tried to listen to his prayers. Instead of gods he saw Bu Gai. Poison left a tremor in his hands hands while the rims of his eyes fluoresced. Lorath reached over and touched one of those tears – inspecting the glowing liquid. He had seen this before, bottled and sold by apothecaries. It came from beaches in the East. Maybe that was the source of the sickness as well, dredged up from the sea to haunt the living.

Lorath gasped as Bu Gai took hold of his wrist.

"No!" He nodded at the tear on Lorath's fingertips.

The ship shuddered past another ice berg. This time part of it ground against the mast and a hail of sheered ice fell over the deck. They sat up, drowned in the false snow. A sailor shouted at the front of the vessel. The berg pushed against the ship again, sending everyone to their knees.

Lorath raced to the rail and hung his lantern over the side. Others appeared beside him – some with flaming torches that cut through the darkness. Another sheet of ice wandered ahead in the darkness. This one was flat, barely lifting a metre out of the water. Crumpled at its edge was a skeletal corpse with one arm dangled over the side, occasionally brushing into the passing waves.

"Death..." Whispered Bu Gai.

"No." Lorath lifted his lantern higher. The light caught the corpse's empty eye sockets. Bone shone in the moonlight, poking through the shredded remnants of a Night's Watch cloak. The black material was worried by the wind. "Look!"

Its bones curled around the base of a sword. The corpse moved, pulled upwards from the centre of its spine by some unholy force until it stood on the ice, watching the ship hungrily. Bu Gai screamed at the sailors to turn the ship but the winds were soft and the response sluggish. They moved inevitably closer.

Their ship missed. It sailed safely by, veering far enough to leave an impasse of water between them. The ship behind was not so fortunate. The berg smashed into the bow where the creature waited. As soon as wood touched ice it clambered up the hull using its fingers as claws – digging them deep. Panic erupted on deck. Warriors were there to meet it with swords but they were flung uselessly across the deck. The rest surged forward, screaming as blades sank into its hollow chest and found nothing to pierce.

Lorath tore himself away from Bu Gai, swiped a torch from one of the sailors and vaulted up the rigging at the back of the ship. He screamed at the vessel trailing them until a few eyes looked out into the darkness. He brandish the flame, waving it back and forth. Fire. He howled the word over and over. Someone must have heard him. A lamp was smashed on deck, thrown at the feet of the dead man. It erupted in fury, spreading over the skeleton where the lamp oil soaked right to the bone. The thing let out a screech that transcended the night air and echoed endlessly across the Shivering Sea.

"Fire..." Lorath collapsed back against the ropes, watching the flames die. Too soon. Bu Gai crushed his hand in Lorath's shawl and set him back at the rail. The waters were thick with ice. "My Lord..." Lorath reached for the emperor. The roar of flame from the ship behind exposed dozens of corpses stirring on the sea. As the light died, they vanished but they were still there – the dead waiting for the living to join their ranks.


THE SUNSPEAR – DORNE

Darkstar perched on the bartizan. Its embellishments were woefully eroded while remnants of oillets and figurines were encased in salt. He wrapped his hand around one of them, feeling the outline of breasts beneath his palm. They were all of Nymeria and her endless beauty that lingered in the veil of legend, blinding men to the violence of her conquest. Having seen the silver queen, he wondered if time would eventually veil her fury in stories of her bewitching eyes.

He was not bewitched. She was Aegon, Aenar, Aerys – Baelon, Rhaenys Viserys – Aegor and Visenya. She was every sword melted into the Iron Throne. The graves of those stripped of flesh and turned to ash. She was a firestorm, creeping from the coast. Daenerys Targaryen was all the madness of her father, the wager of a coin and the last hope of Westeros.

"I look on her and see hell," he said to his companion. The Stark child had taken to climbing the walls. He'd found her here, cursed her to leave but the wolf refused.

"I've met worse than her," Arya replied. "She 'as your sword."

"Not my sword," Darkstar tossed another piece of the castle into the sea. "Blood does not entitle us to wield Dawn like a common piece of dragon steel. It is greater than that – a sword with a will of its own. If it has chosen a score with the dragon's ice knight then our house will follow it into battle – into death..."

Arianne's eyes reflected off the water. She was out there, dancing in the waves. He wondered if the souls of the dead passed beneath the surface and became mer-creatures.

Darkstar considered the young girl. "Your father carried our sword, did you know that? No... 'suppose not. It was long before you made an appearance. It's a terrible secret in the realm but we know. Our champion died protecting your Aunt."

"She died-"

"Yes, she died but that was between Lyanna and the gods. Your father was manipulated into killing our champion but was decent enough to return Dawn. We're all on the same side, Arya. Direct your anger where it'll do some good." He watched the way she touched her tiny blade. "You have your father's honour and his violence."

"Why do you care who I kill?" Arya asked. He was a strange, willowy figure – more reptile than man.

"I have nothing else to care for."

Arya noticed the small statue at his hand. "Nymeria..." she nodded at it. "I named my wolf after her."

"Fancy yourself a warrior queen? I dare say you fight with more skill than her. She was like the silver queen," he explained, at the look of disappointment in Arya's eyes, "with a talent for commanding others to fight on her behalf. You, I think, fight your own battles. Thought so. You are more like your Aunt. Lyanna knew what to do with a sword. She gave the prince a fine old scar."

Jorah picked up his pace, following the queen through unending hallways. She would not be deterred, holding her torch high where its flame pressed backwards, trailing in the air like her blood-red silk. "Daenerys!" His voice was kept low to avoid the attention of the guards which lined the stone in motionless patrol. Dead, like statues. Armour catching the light. Spears dripping.

Daenerys took a corner and pushed through a double set of gilded doors. They slowed her progress enough for him to fall in step and glimpse her face. No tears. He was starting to worry that they were gone forever.

"Where is it that you are going?" That's all he wanted to know. Racing through a vast palace so soon after a war was dangerous. "The graves of Yronwood are warm. Your Grace, it is unwise to rush the hallways like-"

When the doors swung shut, Daenerys stopped. "I am not," she turned in a hiss, "entering into any more promises of marriage!"

"I did not suggest anything of the sort," he defended. "Varys was only trying to-"

She held her hand up to silence him. "No and you can tell him that. Ever since I was born men have been trying to barter me off at a price – as if my crown is a condition of some other man's ambition. It is not. I will take my throne as Aegon did." Her eyes were agleam with a ferocity that scared Jorah enough to hold him in silent awe. "With three dragons and my own name."

Jorah could do nothing but dip his head and acquiesce.

"Varys," Jorah added, when he felt it safe, "acts only to aid your cause. Tell me then, what it is that you wish him to arrange and it will be so, Your Grace."

For a moment her father looked through her eyes. He rose from within, riding the tides of fury, intrinsically bound to her soul.

"I want to know if we have friends in King's Landing. I want to meet those friends before marching on the city. Have Varys arrange it, if he feels the need to be useful." Her knight nodded obediently. Daenerys softened. Jorah had doing nothing to offend her yet was left to weather her temper. "And find out what is happening in the North. No – do not ask Varys," she quickly added. Daenerys took his arm and drew him close while her voice became a whisper. "I ask this of you and no one else."

Jorah's heart sank. He'd die for her this instant if she asked and yet he could not do this thing for her. "My family, Khaleesi," he lowered his voice further, "they have not spoken to me since I left Bear Island."

Her hand shifted to his face, brushing across the bristle of his beard. She held him steady – stilling him with nothing but her eyes. "They will answer your letters, Ser Jorah Mormont because they are sent at my request."

"I will try..." he replied. "Can I ask why you do this?"

"I do not know what Varys wants," Daenerys moved closer. "Which means I have no idea what he'd sacrifice to have it." If he'd sacrifice her. "For all his smiles and careful whispers I will never forget that he was on my father's council. How do I know that the king's madness was not deepened by murmurs in his ear? And how do I know, Ser Jorah, that those whispers weren't from his tongue?"

By all the old gods, Jorah prayed that she was wrong. "Where were you going in such a hurry? It was not to make this request of me."

"No. It was not." She sighed and moved from his reach. "I will ride Drogon tonight."

"So soon after battle – is that wise?"

His protests came fast but she was ready. "If I am to enter King's Landing on the back of a dragon, I need to have more control of the beast between my thighs. You saw what happened in the city today. Drogon nearly burned it to the ground. He killed a dozen of my own men and tore them apart like scraps of meat. He is not fit for war and neither am I. As a lord learns the dance of a sword – I must learn the dance of dragons."

"You can not ride all three of them, Daenerys..."

"I have thought of that too. Ser," and here she paused, seeing her knight afresh. "I heard what transpired in the city today. Half the men saw." He averted his gaze. Daenerys could not decide if it was in guilt or embarrassment. "Why do you hide? Viserion came to you. Forgive me but is that not how the Targaryen riders describe their bond?"

"Khaleesi I am not a Targaryen. I've no right to-"

"Ride a dragon?" A smile spread across her lips. "This you have already dared and lived. Tyrion tells me, Viserion would have killed you in an instant if he did not wish you to ride him. When we move on King's Landing, I need you by my side – wing to wing. Do you understand?"

He understood but could not speak. Jorah dipped to one knee, lowering his head in a bow. He felt the light weight of her pale hand on his shoulder and for several minutes he could not find the words to accept.


Daenerys rode out alone that night. She mounted Drogon on the sand and held fast to the leather harness as he rumbled down the wet sand at the tide line. He lifted off the ground and began lazy laps of the bay, moving up and down in the geothermal currents along with a pair of surprised sea eagles.

As they rose even higher, Daenerys spied the pirate fleet making its way around Dorne. She feared for Varys' plan. The opportunity for failure was as vast as the sea itself and yet the rewards of success were sweet enough to temp everyone. Daario – Euron... The man at the heart of it was fierce enough to try.

Without meaning to, she commanded Drogon to fly towards the fleet. He tilted to the side, dipping his enormous wing into the wind in an elegant curve that brought him parallel to the water. They gained on the ships until he pulled beside the lead.

Daario waited on deck with his arms braced on the rail. He'd been watching the dragon for hours. Drogon was much larger than Viserion and nowhere near as beautiful in his eyes. Losing the queen to her destiny was difficult but he had come to terms with their fate long ago. Leaving his dragon at Dorne was far more to bear. Even the pirates who had cursed the constant peril of their loitering shadow in the sky were ill at ease. Viserion had been their strength. Their sigil.

He could not stand to look any longer and headed below deck into the arms of the Bloodstone.


Quaithe was drawn toward the pyres. The twisting beasts of fire grew as high as the Sunspear's walls, fed by the deluge of war. She'd seen them in her dreams. The same flames. The same city half-ruined in the dark. Its bells silenced with a prince who grew cold in the crypts while the great wheel turned. Quentyn stood between the bodies of his sister and father, weeping in the dark.

A firm arm dragged her into the light.

"It is not permitted," Black Scale said, hauling the witch away from the beach where she'd lingered in the shadows. What creature came from the sea at such an hour?

Quaithe's golden mask rustled. "The Bear knight," her voice rasped. "I have a message for his ears."

"Ser Jorah Mormont?"

She nodded. "I have travelled from the far East to see him this night."

"He is by the pyres," Black Scale replied. When she moved toward them, the soldier held her back with a rough grip. "I am wary of witches..." he warned. "As a boy I listened to them curse our kind while they were lined along the city wall. Their heads were taken and their bodies thrown into Slaver's Bay where the gulls feasted for days. The masters had no place for their magic. Neither did we. It was the only thing we agreed on."

"Commander, I am no witch."

They found Jorah blushing pink from the heat. He was looking into the depths of fire, searching as the Red Priests did for answers that were not there. He stirred when the pair approached.

His black cape caught in the ocean wind and wrapped around his body. Inside it was lined with red silk. A gift from the new Prince of Dorne. They had a love of theatre and firmly believed that an enemy could be conquered by the sight of an army. Well, Quaithe conquered Jorah with the slightest shimmer of gold from her mask. He knew what she was.

"Forgive me," Jorah began, when Black Scale brought her forward, "I did not believe fate would bring us here again."

"Since when is Jorah the Andal at the whim of Fate's lips?" Quaithe replied, slithering from Black Scale's hold. She was like the shadows on the beach. "Or do your dreams blind your eyes?"

"You may leave," Jorah nodded at Black Scale. When they were alone, Jorah continued. "They are not dreams, as you well know. A man should not know such things."

Boldly, Quaithe took his arm and pulled it into the light. The text in his skin rose to the surface, darker than before, called by her touch. "When are you going to learn? There is no 'should' or 'should not' – only what is. If you wish to survive the wars to come you will need to set your damn honour aside. Victory is a mess. To be queen, Daenerys will have to do a lot worse than picking sides in someone else's war." She released her hold on Jorah. The blood magic seethed around beneath his skin, trapped. The world blurred with it. Her hand slapped over his cheek. "Pain binds you to truth and to her."

"Why have you returned? It was not to lecture me on the will of the gods. If you'd wanted to join the Queen's cause you'd have ridden with us from Asshai."

"I thought..." Quaithe sighed with the breeze. "Wisdom rarely comes with age," she said instead, "and in my years I have learned never to be surprised by how often we are wrong. In Asshai I planned to head East, to find the last of the last Valyrians living within the walls of Old Volantis. Instead of the past I found the future. My path led to this beach and in the walking of it I gathered information that may be of use" The fires disturbed her peace. Even after so many years she could feel the anger of the flames against her face, peeling the layers of flesh. She begged him back into the shadow of the sea, if only to watch the remaining pair of dragons swim. "Sometimes I look at them," she whispered, "and I cannot believe that they are real. I called to them so many times but could not wake them."

"Real enough, I assure you," Jorah replied. "Do you expect the Valyrians in Old Volantis will ally with the queen? They have remained silent through the wars of Westeros. They show no interest in the world beyond their black walls." Jorah stepped closer to the sorceress. Her lies shone through the slits of her mask. "You do not seek their council at all. What else is buried behind those walls?"

"The Temple of the Lord of Light," she whispered. "Dragons have increased the power of their followers – are you not curious about the temple itself?"

"A wise man once told me not to place my faith in the whispers of magic. This other information..."

"Relates to a relic recovered by Daario in the ruins of Yin. He stole if from Bu Gai's treasure room and carried it across the oceans. He has a black gem stone that has been in the emperor's family for generations – before time was time, as they say." Quaithe eyed the sword sitting on Jorah's hip. She has seen its glorious hilt once before, sliding through the air as a battle raged. There was nothing in the world like the milkglass sword. "May I see?"

He agreed, drawing out Dawn. The metal sang as it was removed from its sheath. Jorah laid it flat across his palms. Her bony finger tapped the empty claws where the Bloodstone belonged.

"Here..." she whispered. "This is where the stone belongs. Before the war begins it must be returned."

Jorah frowned, shifting uneasily. There was no doubt that the sword was missing one of its jewels. He put it away, not liking the shine in Quaithe's eyes. The pirate fleet had vanished from their horizon several hours ago. "I do not understand, why not ask Daario to present the missing stone to the queen? You have let him leave and now he is more than like to die on Varys' quest." He meditated on that. "I'd say definite that he die before that task is done."

"Ser, the stone is more dangerous than you know," she breathed. "Better it be kept from the queen until the end. It is poison. And – and it is unlikely to be lost. It has a way about it."

Jorah's eyes were like steel. "We will have this conversation again if I have to fish it out of the Shivering Sea."

Quaithe retreated, ever shifting away from the light. This place had the stink of death. The air was full of human ash and the sands clogged with bone. Jorah followed. He did not understand Quaithe. There were times when she saved their lives and others when she was content to watch the swords fall across their necks. "I'll ask you again, princess... Why have you returned to the Queen?"

She was silent for a long time before finally murmuring the truth. "Because I dream... Such horrors... I need to know if any of them are true before I leave."


"I thought you would be drinking..." Varys announced his presence, lingering by the door.

Tyrion sat in front of the window with an untouched bottle of wine balanced on the sill, illuminated by the moon. They had not spoken since their argument. Both of them had bruises darkening and smears of blood left to dry. He had the stink of the sea and Varys – of ink.

"I am surrounded by dangerous people," Tyrion replied.

Varys fought a smirk, inching into the room. "You always drink when surrounded by dangerous people. Your sister tried to have you killed from the first moments of your birth. Tywin stood on the shores of Casterly Rock intent on sending you beneath the waves. You've had a brush with the Moon Door, tasted the front lines of battle more than once. Lived with a bear..." The list went on.

"I don't care for it tonight." Tyrion sounded lost. He was searching something beyond the window that refused to form. "Why did you do it?" He finally asked.

Varys closed the door and moved to lean against the wall beside the window. He kept to the shadows. "Because, in the grand game, some things are necessary – undesirable as we might find them. The Faceless Men were an available solution to a complex problem. The rest, I accept, is a consequence I have already apologised for." He flinched at the hollowness of his words.

"It was more than that, Varys. You have employed the services of an order that work directly against your ultimate goal. No amount of silver will make those men forget that dragons were their masters. Gods – there are scrolls in Old Town that say they caused the Doom itself."

"That," Varys assured, "is a fantasy."

Tyrion's eyes were pits of the abyss. Betrayal. Loss. Uncertainty. The ground he thought solid was found to be made of sand. He did not know how to proceed. "I am curious whose name you've paid for. A king? A man who would be king? Some lowly merchant that holds a key? There is no telling how the mind of a spider works. If the name was mine..."

Varys held up his hand. "No. The name was not yours. That much I can say. We have known each other a long time, old friend. That is what you are, Tyrion. A friend – I hope. That has not changed. You are trying to decide whether or not to tell the queen. Let me say this. If you tell Daenerys, she will kill me – violence is in her blood. Think Tyrion. The last time she suspected a Faceless assassin in her ranks she drowned a ship of loyal followers."

"The queen's rage is swift," Tyrion agreed, finally looking at Varys. "It would cut as both down if she learned the truth so I am forced to trust you." The imp felt himself deflating. A war with Varys was impossible. "For the sake of the gods, man – sit." He did. "Your head?"

"It's not the worst knock it's had," Varys replied. "This is the beginning, Tyrion. The queen has refused to align herself in marriage to any house in Westeros. She is determined to take the realm on the back of a dragon. It is madness. She does not have the stomach for a repeat of the great conquest. That amount of blood requires something quite extraordinary."

"You are a very clever man, Varys – possibly one of the most intelligent men ever born and yet you cannot see what is clear. The moment that girl walked into a fire with three dragon eggs her future was writ. She will take Westeros with the sword. She will burn King's Landing to the ground. We are the ones who don't have the stomach for it. Who did you offer her in marriage?"

"The Tyrell prince – Loras."

Tyrion chuckled to himself.

"Why do you mock? It makes perfect sense. A natural friend with power and wealth."

"The queen prefers large warriors. A flower does not tempt a fire."

"Well, she cannot wed a knight or a pirate, that much is clear."

"Really?"

Varys laid against the stone. "We leave tomorrow with the Martell army. You and I must decide if we are to sail or ride into King's Landing."

"I'm middling on a horse," Tyrion lamented, "and you are worse."

"The sea it is."


Drogon shook the water from his scales. The Queen slid down his wing and landed on the wet sand where two figures waited. It was near dawn. The fires were finished. Their putrid smoke receded over the water.

"Quaithe?" Daenerys approached. Ser Jorah stood with her. "I heard you sailed with Daario. We thank you for the relics of Old Valyria."

"My queen," Quaithe knelt in the sand. She remained on her knees, staring from the slits in her mask.

"What is it?" Daenerys tried to make her stand but Quaithe refused.

"I had to be sure," she whispered, tears slipping over the metal. "I thought – if I were to look at you, I would know."

"Know what?"

"Daario has seen things in the mists of Old Valyria. He shared them with me and for a while I did not believe. Then I saw..." Quaithe's gaze flicked between the sword on Jorah's hip and Daenery's breast. That pale steel had been in the heart of another queen. "If I had known these dreams before Asshai, I would not have performed the ritual. I fear I may have caused irreparable harm."

"You make no sense..."

Jorah fished Quaithe from the sand on the queen's command and held her steady. She shook beneath his hold – terrified. "We should take her inside, Your Grace. She is unwell." As he went to move her, Quaithe collapsed backwards into his arms.


THE IRON ISLANDS – WESTEROS

The throne of the Iron Born was a woeful thing. Cast from the sea and left on the shore, it brought all the wrack of the depths into the light. Plucked from a towering city in the jungles of Ulthos, the throne was tossed into the sea by a cataclysm and left to wander the sand beneath the waves for an age. Empires rose and fell while it drifted across the world until finally, in the freezing waters of the North, a wave pushed it onto the rocks. The stench of death endured. Magic, once killed, lingered in the stone's flesh.

Victarion Greyjoy curled his hands over its smooth surface in admiration. Its filth complimented his poisoned dreams which grew darker by the day. Through the crack in the rock he could see the harbour where a new fleet assembled. Partial hulls were laid out on the beach, swarmed over by workers. The frozen forests of nearby shores were torn down and turned into masts and planks. Women lined the hills spinning canvas sales and the priests of the Drowned God wandered the edge of the water, hissing prayers at the sea.

"Your niece and nephew have taken port in Volantis," said the messenger, scraping a piece of drift wood he used to steady his feet. "Hard to hide a fleet. There's talk of them heading to Dorne to chase after the Targaryen queen."

Victarion was amused by this. He thrust out of his chair and roamed over to the fire. Remnants of scrolls lay around the edge of the flames like a nest. All the world was alive with ravens but aside from a squabble in the North, the swords were yet to fall.

"I forgot," he drawled, casting his eye around the room, "how small these islands are. How did my brother live out his days in this room? You cannot conquer the world from a throne." Victarion led the messenger out onto the fragile bridge that linked the Pyke to its neighbouring stack. The rope bridge croaked, swinging in the light wind. "Can you see it, out there beyond the waves?"

The old man leaned as far as he dare. He saw nothing but water and a few lazy clouds.

"Of course not. The world expects me to sail South and lay waste to the King's Landing." He shook his head. "The capital is fucked. Only a mad man would waste his fleet in that row. No, we'll head south – to Lannisport. If – and that is a wager I'd not take – the Lannister empire survives, we'll hold their heart in our fucking claws. We can control the realm from here and if the Targaryen wins, we still have the gold and possession of the greatest fort in the land."

"We are sailing on Casterly Rock?"

"Before the week is out."


VOLANTIS - ESSOS

"You heard..." Theon leaned closer to his sister's ear. It was difficult to get a word in as she writhed against one of the brightly coloured whores. The place crawled with them, like crabs chasing the tide. Sometimes Theon wondered if she did this to torment him. He felt a ghost of fire where his cock ought to have been but a swig of ale chased it off and he was left with a sickening air of smoke and perfume. "Mantarys fell a few weeks ago. The city's still burning. Dothraki, they say."

"Jogos Nai, brother," she corrected.

"Horselords – what difference does it make? They sacked the city and hung entrails from the walls. Savages." He tried to impress upon Asha the urgency of the situation but she was more interested in the woman on her lap. "Mantarys is about two week's fair weather from Volantis. We need to leave before they get here. Asha? Asha..."

"It makes a great deal of difference," Asha finally replied, breaking only to pour another glass. "Do you really think that we've set up in this tavern for indulgence's sake? I am not a man. You can go." Asha paid the woman and watched her saunter off to another client. "The girls speak of little else. Look around, brother. This place is full of merchants and nobles who've escaped the violence. They've been telling stories of an army led by Pol Qo himself – he is an Eastern King."

"So?"

"So... they also say that he has partnered with Daenerys Targaryen. These savages fly dragon banners. He is an extension of her army with orders to sail to Westeros."

"Come on..." Theon turned to his drink. "Her army is made of slaves from Yunkai and Dothraki tribes taken from her husband. Where would she meet let alone secure an alliance like that?"

"Nobody knows but we're going to join them." She snatched Theon's glass away. "You've had too much of that tonight. I paid the seamstresses to make banners of our own. When they are ready we will sail East to meet them before they reach Volantis."

"The Targaryen queen is in Dorne, that is where we should be sailing."

"Like all men, you know nothing about women. This fleet of savages will need us to navigate the Sunset Sea. If we deliver her army safely to Westeros then she'll be inclined to return the favour."

"I hope you're right," Theon whispered. "Or they'll be painting their sails red with our blood."

"Red is a good colour, little brother."