DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY

Even the shores were black. Cursed by dragonfire. Wars. Death. Flames that lived beneath the sea and set pools of shallow water to boil. Mist and smoke dragged over the Eastern beaches, souring the air with the stench of sulphur. Blow-holes roared to life, thrusting streams of heated water into the sky like land-locked whales.

The late King Stannis had built jetties that stretched into the deep water where the pirates birthed their heavily laden ships. Wood ended where the black glass began. Miles and miles of it, crunching underfoot. The castle of Dragonstone was embraced by the wretched shadow of the Dragonmount behind. Its violent rises of sheer black cliffs had been forced up from the depths of hell beneath the water. New flanks were added yearly and day by day it inched a little higher toward the storm. Snow graced the upper ridges. It was so tall that the weather curved around it like a rock in the stream, coating one side with an endless deluge that funnelled into springs beneath the Keep.

The pirates quieted upon hearing growls within the rock. Dragons, they thought, trapped in the mountain.

A scattering of Lannister soldiers held the castle. Fat and drunk, they ambled between the snarling stone dragons that watched over the heart of Valyria's conquest. Panic lurched them to life when they saw the fleet flying black sails. They boarded themselves in, hissing unwelcome prayers to gods that would rather see them dead. It was the work of an hour to flush them out and let the pirates indulge their hunger for violence. Daario showed no interest, letting the men do as they wished while he scouted the castle. Remnants of Stannis' occupation lay in the rooms and halls. He reached out, tearing a Baratheon banner from the wall as he passed.

He came upon the throne room and felt a wash of familiarity. It had the feel of Pyke. Dreary stone walls that sapped light from the arches of rock. The spray of salt from the raging waters. Smoke, forever trapped within the halls and carpets of sea-grass made into mats. Daario's eyes lifted to the dragon created from stone, curling around the throne. Its fangs were black. Its eyes, black. Scales of black and a long, black tail that broke free of its rock confines and stood freely in an elegant curl at the edge of the room. He laid a hand on it, following it back to the wall. Dark rubies had been pressed into its scales, each formed into a tear drop. It was beautiful in its morbid devotion. A shrine to blood and fire. The seat of rage from which a continent fell.

Daario climbed the steps to the seat cut directly into the rock. He turned and lowered himself onto the throne. There was a warmth in it, born of the mountain behind whose constant trembles he felt under his fingertips.

"Captain?" One of his men entered. Every one of them was bloodied from the storm that nearly took their lives. "The men were wondering what you want us to do?"

"Search the palace," he replied. "There's a tunnel leading into the mountain. Find it and where it ends, conceal our treasure. We'll hold this island until the end."

The pirates were embolden by the terror of their new home. Of all the wretched places they had sailed, the horror of Dragonstone emerged from the sea like a dead thing. A truly fearsome stronghold. Even now, as Daario brushed his thumb against the throne, he wondered if he'd have the strength to step aside when the Silver Queen arrived.


KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS

The thunder barely managed a soft snore within the depths of the Red Keep. Its violence was replaced by the rush of water, tearing through the rock on its way to the sea. Rats, trapped in the deluge, screamed as they were swept through the bars. Olenna felt pity for them. What were they but rats caught in the storm?

"There is one thing that I know of you, Nestoris..." Olenna waited for him to twist in the torchlight and set his deep eyes upon her. He looked like one of those frightened rats. "Your balls are intact."

For a humourless man he found a shadow of amusement. "Is it true – that you fear no one?"

"I find very little point to fear but if I did, I'd hardly care to show it."

A true smile. "I'll not die on that island," he assured the rose-monarch. "He is not my first pirate king. Half the lords in the East are pirates by your law. The rest are worse. Bastards of the sand. Horselords and Bonemen. Men that fuck goats and those that claim to live in the sea. As long as there is coin there is business and I am, first and foremost, a man of business."

"Take care, you sound like one of Baelish's brothels. He'll take coin from anything that moves."

"And spend it on the gods-know-not-what." Tycho drew his hood back over his head and prepared for the rain. The storms were breaking and his ship, should it still have a mast, waited to sail for Dragonstone. "When I return, we will speak again."


The Lannisters had no love for their gardens. Built by the Targaryens – tended to by their cultivated children and indulged by the Baratheon – they had been left to ruin. Tommen was too young to keep a watchful eye on his castle and Cersei had more pressing concerns.

Olenna reached out to one of the hedges, letting the wilted leaves brush against her cracked old skin. Too much water. Not enough heat. Ripped from its home in the Dornish Watergardens and forced to struggle in the cooler air. You could not force love where there was none. Poor thing. It would never flower.

She found her grandchildren several tiers down, catching the sun in the half-moon garden that overlooked the water. Arches of purple-leaved trees shed over the pavement while a chorus of flowering shrubs had their petals stripped in last night's storm and now lay as a carpet around them.

"And what is this, hmm?" Olenna asked, sitting beside them. Loras looked toward the stone at his feet, lost in memories of past love. That Baratheon child, Renly, had ruined Loras' spirit, taking part of it to the grave. Curse that foolish boy.

Margaery draped her arm over her brother's shoulders, caressing the fresh scars where his ear had been. A new fringe obscured the branding burned into his forehead by the Faith Militant but his eyes were still as beautiful as clear water. Olenna sighed heavily. She loved her grandchildren.

"Loras has decided to take a walk in the gardens with me today," Margaery replied, as though that were some kind of achievement.

"So I see." The world around them dripped. Below, pieces of broken ships washed onto the shore. "But where is his tunic? His sword? The jewels of his family?"

"Give him time, Grandmother..."

Olenna hushed Margaery with a lifted hand. "Don't encourage him, dear." She moved that hand down to rest on Loras' knee. "I want you to go back to your room, bathe, dress in your best clothes and prepare – tonight the King has ordered a feast to honour your sister and her happy news."

"A feast?" Rasped Loras. "While the city starves?"

"A modest affair to be sure but one which you will attend looking like the heir to Highgarden – not something we found washed up at the edge of the Keep."

"Grandmother!" Margaery gasped.

"You think that is shocking?" Olenna turned on her. "We are beyond words. Swords follow words and when they cut the blood runs hot. Do not pretend you haven't heard reports from the city. Women murdering their own children to stop them starving into piles of bone. Corpses left hanging from the walls of the sept with gulls making nests of their ribs. The depths of the Dragonpit – woken to life with fires where the Red Priests are purified in the flame. Do not imagine for one minute that these things are not coming for you."

Loras kicked the dying petals at his feet. "I don't care -" His hands rose to his face which stung from the force of his grandmother's slap. Olenna hit him again, harder this time. "Stop!"

"Hurts, does it?" Olenna replied.

"Grandmother – really – Loras is – argh!"

Olenna slapped her also, twice as hard as Loras for she had twice the sense. "Listen to me very carefully. If you want to run home we do so today. We leave and we hope that the Lannister army doesn't have enough time to pay us a visit before King's Landing descends into war. If, by some miracle, Highgarden survives you will raise that child of yours as a nameless Flower and never again dream of a crown. Mmm... I did not think so. You've wanted to be Queen since you could toddle around with a tiara made of leaves."

She dragged her grandchildren to their feet and led them over to the balcony. Beyond, the waters of Blackwater Bay rolled in, scattered with ships broken free of their moorings during the storm.

"Within the week, black sails will fill that harbour. Filthy pirates, lustful and drenched in rage will wash upon the docks and ravage their way across the city. A few weeks after that, their sails will be replaced by dragon wings and that will be the end of the lion's roar." She took Margaery's hands. "There is a case to be made for Tommen's survival but do not get too attached to the boy. The new queen will wish him dead."

"New queen..."

"Yes, my dear. The Targaryen will be queen. Whether it takes a week of politics or an hour of fire." This time, Olenna took Loras by the shoulder, pushing his hair away from his ruined ear in a way of making him face his reality. "And as a young queen, she will need a husband." He flinched away from her but Olenna held fast. "A young husband with a powerful family. Daenerys Stormborn has no quarrel with us. She is the future, the Lannister's are the past. The crown passes from one child to the next but we keep our hold of it and our lives. Once you've tasted royalty the only way to leave it is in death."

Her grandchildren were shocked. Furious and jealous of each other. "But I am the queen!" Margaery hissed. "I am carrying the king's child!"

"If you stand there and say that to Daenerys Targaryen, you'll be queen of the ashes, my dear. If the pair of you want to stand there, walk in the garden and pretend this end is not coming – that's too bad because the world isn't going away. Alive or dead – decide now."

Margaery nodded through her tears and even Loras pulled his eyes up from the ground to meet his grandmother.

"Good..." She wrapped her arms around them both, pulling them closer into her embrace. "Save your prayers, dear." Olenna added, as Margaery whispered something to the gods. "I used to pray to the Maiden – tend gardens in her honour – weep nightly that she'd protect me. Then I was betrothed to a Targaryen boy when I was nine so I prayed to the Warrior that I might survive. In the end, I married your grandfather and learned it was better to pray to the Crone than waste time on foolery. I read scrolls from the Citadel. Raised children to be honest and lived by all the godly rules and yet my husband rode to his death hawking simply because he did not have the sense to keep his eyes ahead. I prayed to the Stranger. One day, while revelling in the pointlessness of it all, I realised that I had been praying to myself and not a whisper in the sky."


CASTLE BLACK – THE WALL

"Oy!" Commander Thorne shoved one of his men against the surge of ice. The Night's Watchman was startled from sleep, pawing at the fresh snow before clambering back to his feet to face Thorne's furious face. "The fuck is that, then?" He asked, when the man was capable of following his eye-line to the tower of smoke billowing on the other side of The Wall.

"S-smoke?" He replied, hazarding a closer look. "Fire, by the looks."

"Ay, a fire. On the Wildling side of The Wall." Thorne paused to see if that was enough of an explanation. It wasn't. "The Wilding's are all on this side of The Wall."

"Oh..."

"So who's lighting fires at our gates?"

"Dunno..."

Thorne stared at his man. Forget demons made of ice. Humanity's true end was coming on the swords of men like this where breathing was a battle of wits. "Well fookin' sake go take a look then, yeah?"

First dragons now this. From up here Thorne could see the trail of Southerners inching closer – to what end, who knew? Every lost soul in the realm was suddenly on their way to man this lump of ice and bring a bit of purpose to their meaningless hours in the sun. Thorne was in the unique position to appreciate the true nature of Castle Black. It was a slaughter house.


Dacey Mormont lay beside the fire she'd created, watching the flames catch amongst the dry branches and make smoke of the pine needles. She tilted her head, casting her gaze to the perfect expanse of blue above. Everything she had was put into the fire. If the tiny blemishes on the top of The Wall did not see the smoke then she was lost. Dacey did not have the strength to walk to another castle and even if she did this was the only one manned by the Night's Watch.

She slipped in and out of consciousness. Sometimes she was in the snow – cocooned by the cold. Then she'd open her eyes and find herself perched by the ocean with an unfamiliar city rearing up behind. Salt crusting in her feathers. Roaring flames in the sky and a slither of red creeping out.

Suddenly, she was being dragged across the snow, picked up by her feet. She let her arms fall by her side – offered no protest as they were pulled behind her head with the motion. Whether it was a wolf or a man or a creature of ice, Dacey was beyond knowing. Flecks of ice hit her face. They melted as the sunlight gave way to a shadow.

"Ain' look like no Wildling..." One of the men said, hoisting the body into his arms once they entered the tunnel of ice. Others waited for him at the gate, lowering it with suspicions looks toward the forest. It slammed back into the ice. Torches lit the rest of the passage. Several were missing, torn off in the last great battle.

"Is it even alive?" Another of the men asked, closing another gate. There were three of the iron things blocking the passage and another two in the process of being built. Failing that, the current plan was to blow the whole fucking tunnel to hell and let the ice keep the dead out.

"Ay it's been movin'," he replied. "Takin' it to the Lord Commander so he can 'ave a look."


What used to be mud had frozen into an uneven nightmare. Crossing the courtyard in the centre of Castle Black claimed men every hour, chipping away at their pride as they were laid flat in a pile of armour and black fur.

Lord Commander Thorne held open the door as his men laid the body on wide table in the centre of his office. He nodded at them to close the door and stoke the fire – coax a bit of warmth into the room which seemed determined to freeze over before Winter.

"Alive – the gods must fancy this one," he said, as the woman shifted.

It took them the rest of the afternoon and half the night to warm her up enough so that she could sit. They left her quiet – sipping pine tea and stew. Every passing moment brought her closer to life until finally she turned to the Lord Commander, who kept watch from the back of the room writing letters, and addressed him.

"Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, I presume?" Dacey began, her accent heavily seated in the North. She was in her fifties and wild as the mountains beyond The Wall. Thorne would think twice before lifting a sword in her direction. "You are not my first," she added, catching his amusement. "My uncle gave me a sterner greeting than you."

She had stunned Thorne to the extent that he forgot about his quill. It dripped a devastating pool of ink over the letter on his desk before he realised and set it into its holder.

Dacey's weathered features cracked into a smile as she recognised the man behind the table. It was difficult to tell them apart with their determination to conceal themselves in layers of black. "Alliser... is it?" She asked, to which he startled a second time. "I thought a Northerner bettered you a few wars ago? Is that why you've skulked to The Wall? Few end up here by choice. It does not matter why we are here, only that we are. Once you take, 'The Black' the past becomes a story. That's what he used to say..."

"Your uncle?" Commander Thorne took a longer look at the woman. Dark grey hair curled past her shoulders with a violent streak of white, several inches wide cutting between the layers. Her eyes were as pale as snow and her skin bleached of its colour. Despite this, the woman was stronger than most of his men and half a foot taller. A bear of a woman if ever there was. "Commander Jeor Mormont was your uncle?"

Dacey nodded. "Your presence tells me that he has left to meet his gods..."

Thorne dipped his head. "Ay, he has. With honour."

"He never did fancy growing old." Sadness clung to her for a moment as she sipped her tea. It vanished in the flames. "A woman in Castle Black used to cause a stir but I see you have not only women but Freefolk too. The castle is overrun with life since the last time I sat here."

Thorne edged closer, sinking into the chair opposite the Mormont. "Lady Dacey Mormont, must be..." He realised. "I 'eard the Lord Commander speak of a bear wandering the North. He meant you. Why?"

"I wanted to be a Ranger," she smiled sadly into her tea. "That was not option for noble ladies at the time – though it is a stretch in anyone's mind to call a Mormont a 'Lady'. I went ranging on my own instead. Turns out that was safer. I've seen a lot of your men butchered over the years. They make too much noise, you see, it carries on the ice."

"How long were you out there?" He leaned in, fascinated by the utter wilderness pressed between her features. "We have parties that go out, weeks – sometimes months..."

"When I left, there was a war coming between dragons and stags. I never stayed long enough to see it through."

"Then – then you don't know..."

"That my family is dead? I know. I felt it. When you are nowhere the wars of the realm feel even more pointless. Why do we die for golden crowns – does anyone know?" Dacey returned her gaze to the flame before asking, "Do any of them live?"

"Far as I know – Lady Lyanna Mormont – your youngest sister," he added, when he realised Lyanna had not yet been born when Dacey left, "leads Bear Island. She is South, fighting alongside the Starks. There were skirmishes in the Northern lands but Winter is coming. Eyes look further North – to here. The chaos outside is caused by the constant stream of arrivals and those we offered sanctuary to. You'd be Lady of Bear Island yourself if they learned the truth."

Dacey did not have the heart to ask after her cousin. Instead, she set her cup down and found her feet. "There are ways into this castle you are unaware of," she said. "Passages through the ice. If you intend to stay here and fight, let me help you secure the fort."


Nothing had changed. Castle Black was locked in a moment of time. Aeons came and went at its gates but left only another layer of snow behind. Dacey changed into Night's Watch armour except for her cloak which was made of chestnut fox fur gifted by the Freefolk. She plaited her hair, decorating it with tiny silver pins that caught the torch flames.

Thorne was enthralled. He followed her into the tunnels of ice below the castle. They were a maze which narrowed if left unused. The ice was always creeping in, suffocating... During the long Summer, some of the larger tunnels had started to melt. The drip of water had transformed into rows of stalactites that crowded the ceiling hanging like fangs in a dragon's jaw. Then, deeper, the ice gave way to pale wood.

Alliser stopped and lowered his torch. Their halos of light and milky shadows were all that he could see. "Is this Weirwood?"

"Bloody miles of it," she replied. "The whole damn wall, if you ask me."

They ducked under a bower of roots, thick with ice. Pearl bones trapped in a silent ocean. The passageway narrowed. The flames from their torches pressed against the walls searching for air. Finally, a rush of cold air extinguished the fire and immediately they stepped out into the daylight on the other side of the wall.

"By every one of the seven fucking gods..." Alliser swore, with the crunch of snow beneath his boots. "There's nothin' stopping those fucks from getting in."

"Nothing except magic..." Dacey replied. "Everyone at The Wall has heard the stories. There is more than several hundred feet of ice keeping the dead on this side. Whomever created this monster wove veils of magic into its foundations. There are places like this, scattered all through the Lands of Always Winter. The Freefolk knew where to find some of them. The Children of the Forest still shelter in enchanted caves. Magic did no good against the Wildling incursions because it was never meant to keep them out."

"If magic keeps the dead army out then why are you so worried about these tunnels?"

Dacey turned on the Lord Commander. "I have seen magic break," she whispered. "It is not infallible. Far from it. The slightest breeze can knock it down. When it is gone, all we'll have left is this bloody ice."

He watched her strut around in the snow. Alliser could pick a dozen men at random from his ranks and watch them cower by the passage. Bravery like that only came from one place. "Lady Mormont..." he asked carefully, joining her on the stretch of open snow that ran between The Wall and the forest. "Would you consider joining our watch – as a guest, of course. A general."

"You could not be rid of me if you wished," she assured him. "Though you are going to need real weapons, Lord Commander, if you intend to face the dead and live."


Alliser traced the edge of the blade. Her sword was rough, poorly sculpted but sharp enough to slice his finger. It was short, wide and made from obsidian that looked almost like sea-glass in the light. All of her blades were the same. Black shards in steel holds.

"Where did you get these?" he asked, picking each one up in reverence. They felt old.

"Found them," Dacey replied, shifting her cloak to reveal a stone necklace with inlaid runes. "Blades like these are scattered all over the far North. I've found them in caves, snow fields, corpses, abandoned villages... Common steel is useless."

"We have some dragonglass but no enough to arm the men I have let alone those on their way."

"Dragonstone is built on it," Dacey replied. "Bear Island had a trade arrangement with the Targaryens hundreds of years ago. If the island is still there, so is the obsidian."

"It's at the other end of the kingdom..." Alliser trailed off. "I'm not even sure who owns it."

"Find out... You have ravens, don't you?"


DRAGONSTONE – BLACKWATER BAY

Daario watched the hoard of treasure stacked inside the mountain. The walls of the room were warm to the touch, more like a cave than a palace vault. Sweat and smoke filled the air. Gentle vibrations rippled underfoot. Daario stalked to the entrance when they were finished and nodded at the vast wealth. There was enough here to buy a kingdom. More treasure than the pirates had ever imagined and now they had it, they could not touch it. Daario had pledged the wealth to his Silver Queen.

It did not matter. This was capital. There was plenty more gold where they were headed.

He returned to Dragonstone palace and wandered the balconies, making friends with the twisted stone dragons that lingered at every turn. Some of them towered overhead, others were the size of gulls – caught in a motionless dance. Each one was unique as though they'd been alive.

"A ship, Captain," one of his men pointed to the horizon. It came from the South. "Either they are very brave or very stupid."

"Perhaps they are a friend..." Daario offered.

"Pirates do not have friends."

Daario slapped his sailor warmly on the shoulder. "We do now. Go – find out who that is."


Tycho Nestoris steeled himself as the volcano emerged from the thick sea fog. What he first thought were dark storm clouds transformed into the summit of Dragonmount. It was a filthy surge of rock and smoke, pulled from the depths of Blackwater Bay.

"Around to the jetty!" He instructed the captain, who seemed far than entranced by the idea of mooring beside a vast fleet of pirates. A handful of gold convinced him otherwise and the ship made its final turn toward the island.


He presented a facade of steel to the pirates which lined the jetty – each more fearsome than the last. They were from all over, a real bastard mix. Tycho wondered what sort of pirate captain had managed to unite them under one banner or if it was simply a matter of survival as the world crumbled.

One of them waited for him on the black beach. This one was bald with a thick monocle edged in brass. Its chain was attached to a maroon shirt embroidered with highly stylised elephants from Zabhad. His dark skin and white eyes gleamed curiously.

"Our Captain wishes to meet the one who sails to our harbour," the sailor said.

Tycho did not have a choice, bordered on all sides by pirates who marched him into the monstrous castle.

The throne room was a vast chasm of black stone with walls coated in cob webs from decades of disrepair. Men fashioned new lanterns, shedding another halo of light with every one that burst to life. Water was brought from the sea to fill the shallow salt pools in the floor. Banners were unfurled over the walls, each one brandishing a snarling red dragon. Targaryen banners... In a pirate den.

He came face to face with the Pirate Captain and laughed. Tycho could not contain himself. The man draped over the Dragonstone throne had aged in the years since they'd last quarrelled but never did he imagine they'd meet again.

"Leave us..." Daario instructed his men, who did as commanded, closing the rotting doors of the hall.

"You know," Tycho began, moving through the hall, "for a while there you had me truly worried. Oh yes, properly concerned. A pirate hoard in charge of the Targaryen heartland – it is a thing of legend – or it will be, if there is anyone left alive to write about it."

"Poetic, to be sure..." Daario replied, letting the banker approach. He had not forgotten their last meeting. It jaded every thought he'd had of Braavos since.

"I honestly thought you'd be lying under the sea by now. Another Greyjoy, off to terrorise the world, each less ambitious than the last... Your bother came to me first with wild offers of glory and riches if I could extend him enough to cover a fleet. I told him the same thing as you. The Iron Bank does not endorse piracy."

"Indeed. I remember. An interesting lie. What was the real reason you turned us down?"

"Greyjoys are a bad investment. How many centuries have you had on that rock, raping up and down the edge of Westeros? More than enough, we wager, to have amassed a sizeable fortune. The fact that you have not tells us everything we need about your financial management."

"Things have changed, I have no need of the Iron Bank any more." Daario shifted on his throne, far more impressive than any seat in that barbaric monstrosity of marble he'd visited a lifetime ago. "I doubt you sailed here to reminisce."

"No. I came to see the Pirate Captain with an offer from a mutual friend. If you would permit me..."


"Captain?" His man leaned against the balcony, adjusting his eyeglass.

"Say whatever it is that you came here to say..."

Eli Lugg scoffed. He always spoke his mind. Ain't no one who could stop him. Not even the Captain. "Can't help but notice," he began, "that the banker just offered to pay us to invade King's Landing and kill a bunch of Sparrows..."

"That he did."

"Weren't we gonna do that anyways?"

Daario nodded. "Mm-hmm and now we'll have some gold to show for it. What? Do not look at me so. The queen never expressly prohibited us from profiting in this endeavour."

"Not sure she sanctioned it either."

"Daenerys Stormborn should expect it. We are pirates after all."


KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS

Queen Margaery clasped one of the large vases of flowers in her room, lifted it from the mantle and launched it into oblivion. It crashed into her door, smashing apart in a storm of water and petals. Its death was accompanied by a scream. Her soul expelled through that howl. All the rage and frustration channelled onto the air. She took hold of a chair and tossed it aside – then a statue, a pile of books, a phial of ink – it all met the same end at her hand.

Her tears dripped freely from her cheeks until she joined the broken things on the floor.

All the shit – for nothing. Three husbands, now a child. Imprisonment. Torture. She'd suffered it all for the Crown but without it, what was the point? How could she step aside like none of it mattered and hand it to her brother who never shared her dreams? She couldn't. She couldn't... Margaery wept.

She did not hear her king. Tommen carefully pushed open the door to the crunch of broken pottery. He stepped through the puddle of water and oil, flushing pink with a cup of wine. The queen had collapsed in the centre of the room as a wreck, shaking and sobbing.

"Margaery... Margaery..." he called, as he raced to her side. He was dressed in all his finery for the feast tonight.

Her husband's gentle touch made her howls louder. Renly loved her brother and so there was no danger of affection. Joffrey was a monster. Tommen? Well he might have been something more but now the only future he had lay beneath the stone in the great sept.

"No – no!" She pushed Tommen away.

"We – we have a feast to attend, in your honour." He tried, kneeling with her. Gently, he reached for her chin and turned her face back to him. "Your handmaidens came to me. They were in such a state – I did not believe..." Tommen had never seen her break at anything. She was his strength.

Margaery wanted to tell him the truth but looking into his eyes she found a Lannister. He would always be one, no matter how much he wished to be a Baratheon king. "I – am sorry – my lord... My king... I was afraid but now I am all right..." She gripped onto his shoulders, letting him help her to stand.

"I heard that carrying a child can send women a little mad," he meant it gently, now cupping her cheek. "I will let your ladies in. This will all be gone by the time we return from the feast. I promise."

Yes, this will all be gone... Margaery thought darkly.


BONEWAY – OUTSIDE WYL

Ser Jorah Mormont reached up toward the stormy sky, extending his arm in ready for the set of black claws that latched onto the leather arm band. The raven dug in, landing dutifully with a letter tied around its ankle. Jorah ran his finger down the back of its head to the sound of soft chirps.

"What has you so enthralled?" The queen asked later, while her knight read intently. They were on horseback, lumbering alone the rocky path that curled around an endless series of mountains. Occasionally it dipped toward the East and they were gifted with a glimpse of the water.

Before replying, Jorah moved his horse closer to hers. "Turns out our prospective friend has pre-empted our arrival..." he replied. "The Tyrells have reached out to your pirate lord. That should make things easier for Varys and Tyrion when they arrive. At the very least, we know they are interested in the proposition."

"It is far from a foregone conclusion, ser," she warned him. "A lot can happen between now and our arrival."

"I merely said that it was hopeful," he defended, passing her the letter so that she might read it for herself. "On the other matter – I have written to my family in the North but I fear it will be a week at least before we hear a reply. The merchants say the snows are falling heavy."

"Winter..." Daenerys whispered. "You Northerns always say that it is coming..."

"Starks mostly. Bears do not say much of anything."

Daenerys looked across her shoulder with a dazzling grin that forced him to look away. Mormonts were famous for their lack of humour but Daenerys suspected that they were simply misunderstood. "We best send horses ahead," she added, to aid in his recovery. "So that the poor town does not take fright at our arrival and ask the Martells to march in front as proof we are friends."


WYL – DORNE

The stunning, warm Sea of Dorne had an unfamiliar colour to it. Shallow, based in pure white sand and free of weed, its water turned to sapphire whenever the sun rose, which in Dorne, was most days. Marwyn revelled in the view, clutching the edge of the ship as they sailed toward the castle and its modest port. Wyl looked as though it were built from bone but that was only the natural bleaching of the limestone walls. It reared up over the water with a terrifying sea cave hollowed out beneath.

"You have to appreciate the beauty," Marwyn insisted, as Gilly stood beside him. "If we do not pause to admire the world then there is no point to saving it. That is what we are doing..." he added softly. "At least, in Tarly's mind. I have never seen a more unlikely hero in a war but who am I to question the wisdom of the gods?"

"I thought you said the gods were indifferent?" Gilly pressed him gently.

"So I did," he nodded. "Most of the time they are. Occasionally, if we're very lucky, they toss us a scrap. Have you left him in charge of Ash and your boy? Brave woman."

"Oh, he does okay..." Gilly could not take her eyes off the water. "I used to dream of places like this. Well, as much as I could when the only brush I had to paint with was one of white and blue."

Marwyn eyed her with a great deal of fondness. Now that she could read he felt it was only a matter of time until she commanded the pen. He's have her write his letters from now on. "Don't be fooled by its beauty," he cautioned. "Wyl has been a seat of war for centuries. We're on the outskirts of Dorne – a border town to Westeros. You can see it, there, on the other side of the sea." He pointed to an indiscriminate part of the shore. Dorne and Westeros looked the same. "Ah, do you see that?"

Gilly followed his eyes to the cliffs on the left. Behind them, there was a faint hue of dust in the air.

"That is an army..." he explained. "And those," he nodded at a pair of shadows far off in the distance, "are dragons."


TARTH – SHIPBREAKER BAY

"I hate the sea!" Tyrion moaned, sitting on the floor of their ship's deck, clutching an empty bottle of wine.

Varys patiently relieved his compatriot of the bottle and held it to the light. Ah yes, the gift he'd left with the Lannister. On balance it had lasted longer than he predicted. "Nonsense, you love the sea," Varys insisted. "Your displeasure should be directed toward the correct vessel..." he tapped the bottle of wine.

"You probably poisoned that."

"I assure you, I did not." Varys sighed. "Though I doubt it mixed particularly well with the storm last night."

Tyrion hugged his knees to his chest and closed his eyes, trying to ignore the constant rock of the bloody boat. The sky might be putting on a perfect show but last night it had been an echo of hell itself.

"Ah... That is a sight you should make the effort to see..." Varys added, leaning into the wind. "The pale cliffs of Tarth draped in Targaryen banners. I really do admire them – as a concept. They base their allegiance on statistics, which is promising for us..."

The banners were enormous, three of them, reaching almost to the surface of the waves. Without so much as a whisper they had declared for House Targaryen.

"Warms the heart..." Varys added, before tilting his head awkwardly to the side as their accompanying dragon soared overhead and made straight for the cliffs. Curiosity turned to abject horror as Rhaegal pulled up short of one of the banners, lurched both his legs forward and started clawing at the fabroc. His attention had been caught by the movement and despite the terrifying sight of snapping jaws, he was only playing. Perhaps he should consider sending a raven Tarth's way to that effect...