SHARP POINT – BLACKWATER
Its obsidian wings beat against the storm winds. Tumbling, the crow fought its way through sheets of rain and bursts of rage. Bravely, it took a turn toward the cliffs that cut their way into the sky in opposition to the stretch of restless water that extended as far as the creature could imagine. To the bird, the Narrow Sea may as well have been the brink of oblivion. It looked to the waves and saw a wall erected by the deep things, whipped up by the Storm God and cursed by all the rest. A hellish expanse – unexplored.
With black wings, the crow felt out of place amid the hail of white feathers from the flocks of gulls, nesting in the furrows of the stone. Others circled the ugly castle that perched at the tip with its feet at the drop. Their screeching drowned out the crashing waves, angry and relentless.
As the crow rounded the final surge of rock and cawed, announcing itself to the maester waiting at the balcony with his heavy chains clinking.
That was the bird's last breath.
Jaws came from beneath. Curved fangs. Rotten breath. The glint of emerald.
King Tommen's salvation died on the whim of a dragon.
KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS
Daario sailed into the harbour with his pirate sails full of salt air and dark promises. The Crown's fleet had split to allow his passage with their bows pointed diagonally towards his ship like the heads of polished arrows, sparkling gold in the sun while the storm clouds rolled along the edge of the horizon, waiting for another night. They were an odd collection of boats patched together from the King's remaining bannermen. He'd faced many of them in skirmishes over the decades and won. These were people of the land playing at the sea. Their vessels were built by artisans, not war mongers and they'd make beautiful reefs at the bottom of the ocean where their sailors could dine with the gods below and feast until the end.
The enormous promenade had been cleared for their arrival and adorned with strips of white and red fabric, signalling peace. A nice touch, thought Daario. Tyrells were all about appearances like the rose concealing its thorns. In contrast, lions adorned their dens with bones and pieces of dripping meat.
"Where is the King?" Asked Olenna, sitting in a gilded chair placed at the end of the jetty where it met the shore. There was a small stall set up for shade and a pair of throne-like seats beneath. Behind, the pink walls of King's Landing stretched above and side to side giving the illusion of an impenetrable fortress. Of course a touch to the stone found its mortar soft while the edges crumbled into the sharp bite of Blackwater Bay.
Cersei had taken to strutting side to side, watching the lead pirate ship moor. "You never said it was a fucking Greyjoy," she stormed through the filth. Servants had swept the fish carcasses away before the stink refused to leave the stone.
"Euron is here for murder and coin." Olenna assured Cersei, who'd taken on a paler than usual complexion. Perhaps the lion's dependence on wine was beginning to take its toll on her health. One could only hope. If the gods could take one monster from the world, Olenna prayed it be Cersei.
"You know nothing about the Ironborn." Cersei insisted. "They pay the 'iron price'."
"Once, perhaps. Euron has sailed the world and let it change him. I dare say he's become a creature of business and opportunity. Ravaging the ruin of the Sunspear was only the beginning."
Cersei caught her first glimpse of him stepping off his boat and onto the walkway. The sun brightened and for a moment at least, Blackwater Bay turned to sapphire. "Let us hope that you are right," she breathed, "or your head will join those noble faces already adorning the spikes."
"I'd make for a poor decoration." She replied casually but Cersei? She'd look awfully fine as an ornament.
Euron sauntered with all the swagger of his reputation. The shells knitted through his hair and various layers of jewellery all jingled about in the wind. He dipped his head in the shallowest of acknowledgements and rested his hand on the hilt of his golden sword.
Cersei's gaze sank to it at once. The Lannister House sword… The breath was stolen from her and yet she held her tongue. Euron was surrounded by men and with a sizeable fleet in the harbour and a dragon queen on the way, this was no time for butchering or theft. Trinkets turned the heads of men. Hers stayed fixed. Only a fool felled a kingdom for a jewel.
"I've come for a spot of bird watching, Your Grace..." Euron introduced himself.
Everyone's hands were tense on weapons as Lannister soldiers faced off against the violent rabble tailing Euron.
"Payment-" Cersei gestured to a trunk sitting between her and Olenna, "-half now, half when they're dead."
Euron stalked over to the wooden box reinforced with steel bracing to bear the weight of coin. He opened the lid and stabbed his dagger into the metal, snaking it back and forth to check it wasn't full of sand. Eventually he nodded and four of his men carted it back towards the boat. It was a pitiful accompaniment to the tower of wealth under Dragonstone.
"We do this our way." Euron insisted, squaring up on Cersei. She was taller than he was, with flowing gold hair diminished by streaks of grey that glistened silver in the sunlight. Age cracked the skin around her eyes and soon she'd lose the shine of beauty and, like the Stag's rebellion, legend of her prowess would retreat into the memory of dead men. "You'll have your plucked corpses. We work to best advantage in the dark."
"As you wish it." She agreed. "And when you are done, come to the Red Keep and you can collect the rest of your payment."
"I know..." Euron stopped her before she could say the words. "And I'll be taking that payment in full."
Soon after, King's Landing found itself awash with the world's criminal class led by a mad man whose reputation for violence lay draped over every tide. Cersei and Olenna had nearly reached the towering doors of the castle and the promise of its safety before Cersei paused, stopping them both.
"If this turns out to be a mistake, you'll lose twice as much as me."
"I am doing this for all our children." Olenna replied. "We may dislike each other beyond repair but we share a bloodline and that throws us on the same side whether we enjoy the reality or not. I'm doing this for their survival. So what, we enlist the services of these butchers? History will judge us more harshly if we let the city wallow in destitute misery until the last bones fall to dust."
Cersei had never known what to make of the matriarch. She saw her future in Olenna's grey eyes and it frightened her. "You hate the Sparrows more than I do."
Olenna did not fight her. "I find that there are some religions so pervasive that they destroy the fabric of civilisation. Others, scattered through the realm remain distant, like whispers at the fire that frighten children and comfort adults through their nightmares. Then there are those that judge man by something more than invisible lines in the sand. The Faith of the Seven, despite their grandiose promises, bring nothing but misery. Every time they appear in history they must be cut from the heart of the city with a blade. Their words are swords and their prayers writ in blood." Olenna stepped past Cersei to the stone hallway leading up to doors which was whipped sparse by the storm winds. "I'd thought you might ask our tame pirate about Dorne..."
A smile curved the edge of Cersei's lip. "Why open a quarrel before the deed is done?"
It was Olenna's turn to dip her head in Cersei's direction. The lion might be the nastiest piece of work in the Seven Kingdoms but she had her father's sense and there was no higher compliment Olenna could pay. Too bad it would be the death of her. Predictability was more fatal than ignorance in this world of birds and snakes.
THE LANDS OF ALWAYS WINTER – WESTEROS
Blue eyes closed to the whispering frosts. The Others – the dead made of ice or those of bone and frozen flesh – stood in endless life. Their corpses stared at the world. Unseeing. Night and day. A never ending torment of survival. Not him… King of the True North where ice was mined like marble and formed into cities beyond the reach of the living. He ruled over them all. This race of ice whose name and manner were beyond translation.
Stark. He remembered his name. It was all he had to cling to. The vicious memory of his life atop the wall he'd built. His flesh survived beneath its prison of cold and somewhere, against the black glass wedged into his chest, a heart beat itself into life. As he breathed he also dreamed. While his hoard of vacant foot soldiers waited in the snow drifts, the Night King laid behind a black boulder and let the darkness borrow him. There he danced with Death.
His dreams were always the same. His silver woman picking her way through the green forests on the Northern side of The Wall. Freshly built, the blue hues shimmered in the sunlight while her delicate hand caressed the bark of ancient pines. Silent whispers beckoned. Tempted him from his post. Eyes unlike the any he had ever seen darkened as he stepped into the shadow of the forest where the needles were heavy with snow and shed over his leather. A string of amethysts were knit through her hair, settled like stars. When he peeled back her dress he found the purple scar, unhealed, where the knife had dashed her stomach. She smelled of smoke and salt, remnants of starcraft while her songs filled his head with visions of sightless dragons, empires built on stone forged straight from night. Cities that circled mountain ranges and dwarfed the seas. There, he'd loved. Worshipped at her feet with his hands in the snow. His silver queen. A creature of fire locked in a world of ice like a bloom frozen by a storm.
He wanted her more than a man had any right to want a woman. Her skin, when he finally laid a hand upon it, was as cold as ice while her hair fell through his fingers like spider-silk. She was not the same as the ice demons from the depths of the North. Her flesh was pale but living in some form, risen with the darkest whispers of magic. Her kin, long lost to the snows, were shadow binders, necromancers and priests. They'd taken her to a place where ships sailed upon the ice and dragons, whiter than snow, made their nests in oblivion.
She told him about the war beneath the shadow. The creatures that marched upon them from the North. She taught him magic to keep their terrible force at bay and confessed… Even now he flinched at the memory of her truth. Truly good people could be coerced into terrible things by fury. He had done worse for love.
His dreams drifted to his brother's crypts where the earth was wet and warm beneath the castle. The scattering of coffins cut from stone and the statues of their fathers and their fathers before them, gazing into the darkness with harsh eyes. There, somewhere, laid her coffin drawing creatures of magic.
He could hear the scratch of her black nails against the inside of the lid. Her silent screams as she clawed at the darkness. A prisoner of Winter. His brother's insurance against his revenge… She was still there, projecting her ghost on the snows while her body waited.
The Night King's mind wandered and a moment later he dreamt that he was standing beneath the flaming tree at Winterfell. There was a raven with three eyes perched on its low branch and a wolf pup in the snow with eyes as blue as his. He moved toward them both. The raven flew off but the pup waited patiently. He knelt down and picked it up by the scruff of its neck. It yelped at him, swiping with its soft paws.
Then he woke. The grey ranks of his dead army waited. The cold sliced through the air. He laid his hand on the breastplate covering his chest, acknowledging the stab of pain that never faded.
KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS
The sun took its time, slowly stumbling toward the horizon, setting in the unseen Sunset Sea. Above Blackwater Bay the calm waters turned amber, glistening as though the water had been set alight and left to burn.
Olenna sat outside with the wind in her grey hair and the drapery of her veil and skirt flapping against the stone. She spurned the water to watch the Northern edge of the city where the Dragon Pit fires left filthy ribbons of smoke on the air. The streets surrounding them were full of screams as the pirates stepped out, swords drawn.
For all the Faith's harsh words they were pitiful in the face of true butchery. Olenna tried to imagine the blood painting the cobblestones. Quick. Clean. She'd made Euron promise. This was not an exercise in debauchery…
Euron sent his men into the side streets, flushing out vermin and Sparrows. They came back tucking coins into their pockets, thieved from warm corpses. He could not say if they killed more than was allowed and the violence did not bother him as much as he'd anticipated. Mistakenly he'd thought his years in the service of Daenerys had changed his disposition toward murder – or perhaps it was the sickly stone in his hold, poisoning his mind as Quaithe had warned. He even had the self preserving desire to toss the stone into the depths where it could wait out eternity but a deeper force made him clutch it closer.
Ahead, the cobblestoned road twisted upwards, ending in the pale stone walls and collapsing roof of the dragon pit. It was a structure that had endured more pain than the city walls – burned and burned again, clawed at, stabbed, rebuilt and so it repeated since Aegon himself.
As Ironborn, he'd been reared on the promise of slaughter and now he was licensed for it. How jealous Victarian would be when he heard – set up there, alone on his island throne. No wonder he'd flexed his claws at Casterly Rock, pointless as it was. He was a child playing at war. This was war. Carefully plotted. Precise. Ordained by those to the right of the Crown. A game of thrones, gods, men and all the sorry fools in between.
The High Sparrow laid against the immense but severely damaged door of the dragon pit. Behind him, occupying the centre of the arena, was a mighty fire that burned away sin and flesh. Its smoke festered, choking the dwindling flock of devout who streamed from every corner of the city. Their few possessions, cradled in their arms, were soon tossed into the flame. They listened to the screams of their kin and, hour by hour, the silence that followed.
With darkness finally afoot the only sound that remained to them was the hiss of their fire. The High Sparrow tried to imagine what waited for them outside the walls. This place, built to keep the winged demons of foreign oppression, was now a sanctuary for those it oppressed… He would die here. The High Sparrow knew that – along with every other soul that had cast his lot in. He could see the pieces of the board falling into place. There was no redemption on offer. They'd struck at the throat of the Crown and missed.
"Come – gather around. Yes – yes, everyone." He addressed the shivering mass of destitute, drawing them all towards the warmth of the fire. He could almost sense the Red God snickering between the flames. For many of them, the last possessions in their grasp were the chains draped over their rags. "A prayer," he lifted his hands to the night, "to the Seven sets of eyes that watch over us."
There was a general shuffle of reverence. Several of the hundred kneeled in the dirt among the dragon bones and ash of books.
"To the Father," the High Sparrow lifted his voice, "who judges as he protects – eternally over all his children. We pray to our almighty that those who visit evil on us this night will so too be judged." His bare feet felt the cold stone beneath the layers of sand and ash. He was aware, for the first time, how close he was to joining the dust of ghosts passed. "To the Mother, we ask only for mercy and swiftness at the end." He withdrew a slender knife from his belt – one that was used to slaughter pigs and goats. "Her gift of life we now return." The High Sparrow gripped the handle with both hands and lifted it above his head as he bellowed, "To the Warrior. Let our swords be words and the blood they spill the sin of unbelievers. Even in death our victory may follow as songs of our end spread on wings across the Seven Kingdoms. To the Smith, our quill maker, who forged these gospels of the Faith. With nib and ink we construct as keenly as the anvil supports the misshapen form of the unbirthed sword. To the Maid then, with her beauty that sets right the ugliness of men's hearts." The flames rose higher at his back. They wanted his body. Sensing blood, the other gods circled. Bated breath and sharp claws. He'd not waver to their cause. "Crone – hear our last rattling words and say that they are not those of the damned. Stranger – whose face we cannot see. Like Death we come to you as nameless friends to pass the waters of this world into the next. Purchase then our turn with this – our offering and gift then we breathe our last in prayer of you in all your faces."
There was no hesitation in his hand or shake of fear. The High Sparrow brought the knife across one wrist then the other – calmly passed the knife to the next man and then let his blood drip into the filth. It flowed in staggered beats, pooling in dark expanses that reflected both the flames and stars.
The door of the dragon pit was dragged from its hinges and fell, unfurling to the world in its gasp of death. Euron stepped over the swaying chains onto the surface and took in the grisly scene awaiting them. Bodies lay in a halo around the dwindling fire – several twitching.
A whisper of disappointment passed the lips of the pirate hoard behind. Their veins pulsed with blood lust and yet it had all been spilled. There was nothing left for them to do but pick their way through the corpses and Euron to saw through the neck of the High Sparrow and take his head, which he shoved into a bag and swung over his shoulder.
"Mount the rest on the outside of the city walls." He commanded, before turning heel and vanishing into the city.
BRONZE GATE – THE STORMLANDS
Jorah slept with the queen's body twisted around his limbs. She'd entwined herself, like a silk thread on a knight's banner. He could hear her heart beating against his ribs and feel the warm, steady breath across his chest. Daenerys even slept like a dragon, twitching at the faintest disturbance. Always listening. He dared not open his eyes for fear that he had only imagined her loving touch. These were things they'd agreed not to do and yet they did them… Away from sight where they had only their own will to answer. He was a pawn of fate. He'd never felt that more than on the edge of the blade.
So, with a dragon in his embrace, Jorah gave in to the temptation of sleep and allowed himself to drift. 'Your dreams are real...' Quaithe's words mingled with his unravelling thoughts. He made a final grasp at consciousness but missed.
He found himself standing on a bed of ice. A frozen sea, reclaimed by Winter. In the distance shone the crumpled edges where the last motions of tide pushed against the shore and the jagged peaks of ice like rows of dragon teeth thrust in patches. Above the sky stretched, blue as the waters of the Sapphire Isle with only the streak of a red comet marring the scene. The same bleeding star he'd followed in the desert of the Red Waste.
A crack ripped through the air like thunder in chase of lightning. Jorah turned and saw the devastating corpse of an ancient war ship trapped in the jaws of the frozen sea. As the ice thickened it crushed the hull, splitting Ironwood planks as though they were twigs. It would have sunk except its executioner was also the bars of its eternal prison.
A group of men were scattered in the ice nearby, picking their way across the frozen desert. They were awkward on their feet, falling every few steps as their smooth soles found nothing to hold. Some stabbed their swords into the ground and used those to steady themselves. They were all tall and slender with waves of silver hair. Jorah was struck by how like Viserys they looked. Each one had an echo of Targaryen blood about them.
The vision was unstable. It trembled. Faded. Shifted focus. This time Jorah found himself standing beside the leader of the expedition. Not Targaryen… They were older than that. He was a king without a crown who'd sailed far off the map with the skeletal remains of his army. Barley more than bone himself, the Bloodstone emperor fell against the frozen shore and lost hold of his blade. The sword slipped between a pair of black boulders, wedging itself deep within a fissure. The man cried out in heresy and clawed uselessly at the edge of the crack. White roots were knit in the depths of the ice where the sword lay – he recognised them from the white tree on the outskirts of Asshai.
The Bloodstone emperor had no choice but to leave his long claw of dragon steel in the abyss and press on toward the frozen North in search of his sister-wife.
This time Jorah woke in earnest. He expected to see the predicted storm swelling at the window but the night was eerily clear with a set of stars watching on. There was no need to inspect his skin. His flesh burned with the blood-words. Their stories begged, waking and sleeping.
"I thought you'd never wake, ser..." Daenerys stroked her delicate fingers across his chest. She'd been watching him fight his way through sleep as he had done so many times when her dreams took hold.
Jorah lulled his head to the side to look upon her. The starlight left her more beautiful. She was, as the Dothraki riders bragged, 'like the moon and the sun all at once'. Daenerys was the silver face of night's queen and the fire that burned away the darkness. "This was different." He whispered. "The visions are beginning to feel like memories."
"Whose?"
"I dread to think," Jorah admitted. "I do not pretend to understand them but this time-"
"This time what?" Daenerys pressed, propping herself up so that she could look on him. Her hair whispered over his shoulder as she leaned down to press her lips to his collar bone.
"It was a strange thing," he replied, "do you remember when I told you the story of my family sword? How it was found in the ice drifts?"
She nodded. "I remember." Then she listened a she recanted the story. "Your dreams are not like mine."
"Dreams like these do not matter at all," he added. "Only the future matters and we'll find that soon enough without any help from the gods."
"Whose gods, I wonder?" She mused. "Don't you ever wonder whose mercy you are at? I know I do."
He lifted his hand and cupped her cheek, smiling as she leaned into his palm. "That is because you are a creature of magic. It is only natural for you to be curious."
"The Priests of R'hllor claim me as their own. I'm a saint for a religion I know nothing about."
"And you are a god for people who will never meet you," he reminded her. "You will be many things to many people, not all of them you'll understand or agree with. It is the way of things. So long as they wave your dragon banners, what does it matter?"
She laid her head back on his chest and curled in closer. "I am not my brother. He wanted the tide of people kneeling at his feet. It wasn't only the crown he desired – it was their love he needed. Losing our parents left him with this gaping hole that he tried to fill with the worship of strangers. That is why he failed. Conquest comes from somewhere altogether more sinister."
Jorah reached out to touch the bare stone wall. Like everything else in the South, it was warm but insincere. He knew that he'd miss that warmth when their eyes turned to the North once more. "Your desire comes from the need to protect. You might not believe that now but that has always been your story, since the day I first met you. Your Grace, I remember, you see..." Jorah fell into a whisper. "Watching you from the crowd of Dothraki savages, sitting on your warlord throne like a bird on a perch. That was a terrible thing you agreed to do but you did it to save your brother."
"I did it for an army."
"Yes. To save your brother..." He repeated. Her lies were for other people, not for him.
Daenerys' eyes were sad. There was an even deeper truth that not even her knight saw. "That was a lie," she admitted. "I – I did it because I was told to. That's who I was. A young girl at the whim of scheming men. Had I my way I'd have slinked into the multitude – lived as no one. Been happy."
The Queen's party moved with the first rays of morning light, trailing out of the ugly castle to a muted fanfare of hesitant villagers. A pillar of smoke trailed into the sky toward the North-West while Varys' raven confirmed the call to war. Gilly helped to load Ash's cage onto the wagon before falling into step beside Sam. Marwyn, half drunk, staggered into the light and wiped a line of sweat from his brow while the shadows of dragons, high above, flickered over the ground.
"The gods smile on us." One of the Dornish soldiers said, sauntering side to side on his horse with the clack of cobblestone beneath. They were nearly outside the town, leaving its comforts behind and embraced once more by the hiss of ocean wind in the pines.
"The gods only smile for war," Darkstar cautioned his man. "It is the skirmish they await." A smaller horse cantered along the outside of the path before folding in beside his. The Northern girl had come alive at the scent of violence. Eyes sharp. Sword – even shaper. "This is not your war, Stark," he advised. "The Capital is a dangerous place for Starks. Even I know that. There's a curse on your house."
"Curses are for the weak of mind," Arya hissed under her breath. "But you needn't worry. I'm heading North. You might say my name is written in the snows."
"What's that now?" Jorah pulled his horse out of line, dragging its reins sharply. Drogon had taken up perch where the forest parted revealing a dusty pathway to the cliffs. The sea sparkled beyond the dragon, who faced the forest, scratching at the ground in a strange manner. "I've not seen him do that before."
Daenerys stepped her horse from the others to join Jorah. Both animals were uneasy facing the enormous obsidian creature. "Where's Viserion?"
Jorah nodded beyond the cliff to the sky. "Reuniting with Rhaegal."
"That means Varys and Tyrion are moving into place."
Jorah wasn't listening. His eyes were locked with the dragon's. A tiny river of smoke trickled into the air from each nostril. "He's watching our convoy."
"Surely he is not considering picking at one of our horses..."
The squeak of a wagon caught his attention. It was the haphazard creation they'd put together to keep Ash safe. "Look, Your Grace. He is watching the cart."
He was right. When it moved out of sight into the thick of the trees, Drogon scratched along the cliff, waiting at the next clearing for it to reappear. "Come on," he insisted, leading the Queen back into the convoy. "For now that is all he is doing."
She proceeded to lead the convoy through the forest until the horses started to tire. With froth dripping from their lips, Daenerys hissed the order in Dothraki and, wave by wave, the army drew to a halt. The Queen dismounted, slid the reins over the beast's head and passed them over to one of the horselords.
It was cool beneath the canopy of pines – a sight which entranced her foreign army. Even now, after weeks dragging their hooves through the Stormlands, they still whispered ancient prayers to the distrustful narrow trees that swayed like a warrior's ponytail. With an army this size you could feel them coming. Their approach was announced with a vibration in the gravel and when everyone stopped the true quiet returned.
She stepped in between the trees – onto the infinite layers of pine needles. They stained the air with a familiar scent that she'd spent her childhood longing for. It drew her deeper. Another woman walked with her, always too far ahead to see anything more than the slip of her torn silver dress and waves of white hair catching in the branches.
WINTERFELL – THE NORTH
"You sent him away." The Hound found the Winter Queen in the depths of Winterfell's crypts, lurking in the dank and darkness like one of the old stories nurse maids used to hiss to frighten children. Red hair to her waist, a thick woollen coat and whole furs draped over her shoulders, Sansa Stark was as frightening as any of those stories. To imagine the entire fate of the North in the hands of one person, wallowing in the darkness. That is how it had always been but the Hound was understanding, for the first time, the whistle of little birds.
"Yes, I sent him away," she confirmed, without turning from the empty room. "This was meant to be for my brother Robb – a resting place for a king." Mist lifted from her lips as she paused. "Now it will be mine. Imagine that, ser, I am standing in the place my bones will lay – for all the days to come. I wonder, will they make a statue of me too? Weld a sword into my hand and have me stand watch with the others? They should have given my Aunt a sword." Eventually she turned to find the old dog with his eyes fixed on her. "You need not look so shocked. I've not turned mad – or to drink."
"You are making peace with Death," he observed warily. "A common ritual with dumb fucks that hold a sword they don't know how to use. Not so common with royal blood, mind you, it will spill just as thick and red as the rest."
"There is more of my blood within these walls than you realise. Go on," she added, taking a step towards him, "say it. I know you want to and I certainly don't keep you around for the manners."
He mulled the words over a few times before they made it out. "Yer'd have been better ter kill 'im." The Hound began, speaking of Baelish. "Men like that, they don' go back in a box because you command it."
"Do you have dreams, ser Clegane?"
"Every farmer's boy and his mutt has dreams."
"Farmers dream of a plentiful harvest. His dog dreams of a decent side of meat tossed for scrap. The warrior dreams of blood. Ladies dream of gallant knights all dressed in armour. Kings dream of cruelty."
"And what does the little bird dream of?" He asked, softer than usual. Even as he said it, Sandor knew very well that Lady Stark was no one's little bird any more.
"Worms, insects and all the other lowly things. The dead. You came here with a question, ser – what is it?"
"No question, Your Grace."
Whatever it was, he'd lost his nerve to ask it.
SHARP POINT – BLACKWATER BAY
Varys came to an abrupt halt at the doorway. Tyrion occupied one of the harsh wooden chairs, tilted toward the open window with all the roughness of the wind pouring through. The scream of birds and pulsing of dragon wings was all a wash of chaos in comparison to the stoic imp with a bottle of fortified wine dressed in full battle armour.
"What, pray, are you doing, Lord Tyrion?" Varys opened carefully.
The bottle of sickeningly sweet wine was lifted in reply.
"Need I remind you that we are heading out to the ships in a few moments?"
"Nope. I remembered that." Tyrion slurred slightly through his words.
"And – you've chosen this moment to ensconce yourself in drink..."
"I always drink before a war, Lord Varys. I know more when I drink. A bit of reflection before wholesale slaughter I find improves the odds in my favour."
Varys arched an eyebrow. "Sounds like awfully similar logic to zealots muttering prayers at the fire."
Varys was correct, when Tyrion finally stepped onto the deck of the ship, he saw the column of ash rising over King's Landing.
"I never took Daario for a man of his word," Tyrion started, leaning on the railing as their dragon cruised low, dripping its wings in the water, "but he's keeping to a tight schedule."
"He's doing exactly what was born for – murdering and pillaging. The trouble will come when we want him to do something he doesn't like."
"Where's the Queen?"
Varys pointed over to their left where a pair of dragons were flying high near the cloud cover. "The pieces are converging, Tyrion."
"And you're really sure you don't want to try on some armour? I thought the last skirmish at the Sunspear might have wised you up to war."
"A breastplate over my soft flesh will not increase my life by more than a few moments. No – I shall leave the warring in your capable hands, Lord Tyrion."
Varys bowed deeply, almost mockingly and Tyrion was left to wonder if he'd been the loose end of a joke.
The pull of the water was tangible as the fleet curved into the channel, letting their hulls creak against the pressure of the water. The cliffs, despite their ominous overtones, provided a measure of protection from the wind but as soon as the entered open water the gale kicked in and filled their sails. Tyrion tilted his head backwards into the slipstream – his golden curls bouncing wildly. Ah yes – the shit stink of King's Landing. It was blowing down from the North. To his left and right the fleet spread out. White capped waves bashed themselves up against the ships. An array of water birds ducked and dived between the rigging, many of them coming to settle on the rail where they cleaned the salt out of their plumage.
Four extra ships sailed with them, courtesy of Lord Emmon. The old man was so broad that Tryion could see him at the prow of his ship, even from this distance, hungry for a slaughter.
'Be smart and run...' Tyrion whispered to the waves. 'Run – Tommen...'
THE TWINS – RIVERLANDS
Jaime Lannister pulled his horse to a stop. The Twins stood resolute, mournful sentries over the weary strip of water that divided the North from the South. Frey, Lannister and Baratheon banners hung from the narrow slits of the castles' windows, shredded at the edges by the icy wind. Beneath, a great slaughter stretched from one side of the river to the other – fields of bodies savaged to pieces and more, bloated and fouled afloat in the river. They were as grey as the buildings, dusted in a new frost.
"Come on, boy..." He kicked his horse gently. It strode onto the abandoned bridge, stepping over the corpses. Children and villagers dressed in rags picked the bodies clean of their possessions while a few groups of Frey men dug a shallow grave along the forest line. They kept their eyes on the wood and hands gripped tightly to the handles of their spades.
He stopped above one of the bodies. Dogs. He'd seen this sort of carnage before – in the forests but never on the open fields. The world – it was descending into chaos.
The howl of wolves followed him along the King's Road until he was well past The Mountains of the Moon. They hung as a grey shadow to his left, hovering above the thick pine and Ironwood forest with their highest, sharpest peaks shimmering like a set of knives in the morning sun.
Jaime unhooked his heavy furs and tied them to the back of his horse but left the wooden hand in place. The cracks of sunshine widened into an expanse of blue the did absolutely nothing to brighten the burned shell of Harrenhal. It was the most miserable of all man's creations – left to ruin but not quite dead. Festering in its own rot with damp climbing through the ashen walls and the sharp winds kicking free rubble from its towers.
It was manned. Jaime could see several rises of smoke coming but as to their allegiance? Who could tell. Honour was not so obvious without an army. Lately he had wondered how much of the respect he met was based on fear rather than truth. In the beginning it was genuine. Where had that line fallen away?
The stink of marsh wafted over the ever-present mist. A few more hours and he found himself skirting through the edges of The Isle of Faces. The fiery canopy of Weirwood trees drowned out all other life. Any pines that tried to grow were suffocated and left as husks, standing in place like the ribs of a dragon. Shallow water splashed at his horse's angles, running from left to right across the gravel. There were no faces on the trees that faced the road. They were all saplings, barely a hundred years old and stunted from the long Summers.
A murder of crows lines their branches – thousands of them – shining black eyes watching the road. Jaime dragged his hood further over his blonde hair and hurried his horse along. This was no place to linger.
