CASTLE BLACK– THE WALL
The Lord Commander's raven perched upon the ice-locked window sill. Its claws dug in, etching wounds in the crystal surface. Slowly, its old head tilted and gave its other eye a view of the approaching storm. The weather crept upon the castle in a single bank of swollen fog brewing deep in the North-West. Despite the cold, there had been weeks where the clouds rolled off into oblivion and left strips of perfect blue, lulling the Watchmen into a falsity of peace that held as much truth as a king's joy. The sun rose as it always had and the moon followed. More moon than sun, of late. The days were shorter and the shadow cast by The Wall reached further into the South. When the storm finally reached Castle Black, that would be the last of the blue sky.
Thorne meandered near the window which he had forced open. It was all he could do to blow away the stench of madness permeating the castle. A good stiff breeze did a world of good. "What do you see, my feathered demon?" He asked, but the crow had no reply except to lean into the light.
"Raven, Lord Commander-" a brother stumbled through the door, momentarily startled by the freezing room. Everything else in Castle Black had been shut up against the Winter except for Thorne who stared it down. Old Fucking Bastard, then men called him. Good. They needed a few of those where things were headed. "From Brother Edd at the Nightfort."
"Bugger's still alive, then?" Thorne reached for the message. His attempt at levity fell flat after he'd read the untidy words. "Lord Howland Reed is dead. Taken by wolves. They found pieces of him in the snow. Fuck, what a waste. Were there any other birds?"
"No, my Lord. No birds at all. There was another wagon o' that black glass from the dragon girl. It's in the courtyard."
"You best call her, 'Queen' now." Thorne warned. "Take half and send the rest on to the Nightfort and boy – make sure a raven makes it to Winterfell. The Lady Stark will want to know of our troubles."
After the brother had left, Thorne strode over to his old raven and dropped a few crumbs of bread at its feet. "Awfully quiet, you are..." He accused the creature. Normally it was at his sleeve for a scrap day and bloody night. Now all it wanted to do was stare at the snow. "Don't spend too long in the cold."
BLACKWATER BAY – WESTEROS
It was a rough sort of outcrop, protruding from the shore in an unstable curve of sharp, mutilated rock thrown over the water and caught by the sand. There was nothing to compare, either side – only marsh behind and a narrow strip of muddied slush running along its mouth at high tide. Vicious cracks split its face, most of which housed rotund gulls, full on dead flesh. They snuggled in pairs, heads laid on each other's feathered backs. At the base of the cliff was a poorly fitted wooden door made of salvaged driftwood and scraps of leather. Candlelight crept around the edges while shells strung together with twine bumped in the wind.
Arya hung back, retreating to the seam where grass harassed the sand with its razor-stalks. She crouched low. In front, the water lulled in the bay like ink trapped in a maester's well. Shallow waves cut the surface in parallel lines that ebbed and curved wherever the beach meandered. At one end lay King's Landing, lit in the darkness by the roaring fire contained inside the Dragonpit. Slightly North, across the water sat the ominous shadow of Dragonstone. Its stillness frightened her. The silver slips of cloud painted near its summit barely moved despite the onshore wind. It was as if it were a thing removed from time. An island with memories of the wars that came before and the dragons who played in the sky.
Crabs poked their bodies – legs first – out of a hundred holes then ran across the wet sand, honing in on scattered remains. Their hungry tugging made the bits appear to move with a life of their own.
She startled as a pair of winged creatures lifted out of the water and clawed into the star-filled sky. Dragons. Arya ducked closer to the ground, praying that the starlight was not enough to pick her from the sashaying grass. They were wild, like her direwolf, feasting and killing without remorse. She admired their vast, leathery skeletons while her dreams were soaked with blood from Nymeria's kills. Even now she could taste it on her lips.
The king is in here, Arya reminded herself, rising off her haunches to creep along the sand. She darted like a Braavosi dust mouse, from shadow to shadow until she reached the door in the cliff. The rock was covered in thick layers of molluscs – long dead. Their white, hollow shells trapped tiny pools of water which dripped down like streams of tears.
For the second time that evening, there was a knock at the crabbers' door. This one softer than the first. Shy. Certainly not another fisherman or trader from Duskendale. Tommen, Tycho and the married inhabitants of the cave sat within the halos of tortured oil lamps. It was a desperately poor room but the solid walls made from bare rock with assortments of dangling shells rendered it with the most remarkable aura of safety. There was no storm that could touch them inside its black embrace. The gods could rage all they liked in Blackwater Bay and kings could war to their hearts' content but they were confined to a hush on the other side of the door.
"Expecting friends?" The middle-aged wife asked Tommen. Her hair was plaited in dozens of separate pieces, each ending in a coloured beads. Her clothes were loose, sewn from patches of cloth and seal-skin where the elbows of her sleeves needed re-enforcing. The husband was entirely bald and smelled strongly of the sea. He was the one that pried himself from his patch of sand. He took an iron poker with him and brandished it at his side.
"Oh aye we 'ave all sorts tonight an' all..." He remarked, seeing the small girl. She was as filthy as Tommen except she carried her own slender sword with a pretty sort of pummel. Her eyes were endlessly brown, like pine bark. "Sure you ain' know 'im?"
Arya pretended to be a survivor of the King's Landing massacre – a trader's daughter from Braavos who died upon the waves along with his boat. She looked over the crabber's shoulder, snatching a peek at the Lannister bastard king.
Tommen was not what she had dreamed. Her fantasies painted Tommen as a butcher – a slightly younger Jeoffrey suckled on cruelty. Instead she found a boy with an old grey cat draped over his lap and the banker from Braavos drinking broth on a lump of rock to his right. The king even turned the edges of his lips into a weak smile, hearing the tail of a joke.
"Do yer speak?" The crabber prompted, when the girl remained frozen by his earlier guests. "Oh – I see, yer probably recognise 'im, do yer? Being from the Capital an' all I guess it's hard not to. I admit – he got the look all right. Lannister... All that blonde hair. Told 'im already he need ter shave it off if he wants to wander about without being bothered by folk."
"They will always know that he is the king, no matter what wig you put on him." Arya finally replied, her voice steady and gaze fixed on the Lannister boy. He was nearly the same age as her and yet the years had laid lines he did not deserve over his skin. It would have been easy to kill him. To kill them all. Unskilled, poor and starving there was no honour in it. One of Cersei's hired swords could manage – even her brother Robb and he'd never been much good at finishing a job. Nobody knew exactly where the Kingslayer was but Arya thought the gods had sent her his son as payment – something for her to butcher and leave out on display. Yet…
Arya thought of her father and what he would say… It was as though his pale blue eyes were upon her and for the moment, she stilled her sword.
The cat purred, flicked one of its tattered ears down and coughed dryly. Tommen ran his fingers through its silver fur to calm it. The creature was terrified of something, shifting its attention from side to side. "Where are you from?" Tommen asked, but received no reply at all. The girl was staring at the cat in his lap. "Would you like to pet her?" He nodded at the cat. "You can if you like. This is not my cat."
Arya shook her head. "I prefer dogs..."
"Of course," Tommen replied, perfectly calm. "Your sister was the same. She was very sad about a dog..." The young Stark was shocked – that was most people's reaction to him the second he displayed an inch of common sense. He knew exactly who Arya was.
"Wolf..." She breathed. "My sister had a wolf."
"I lived with Lady Sansa for several years and you for a couple of weeks when your father served as Hand of the King. I do not easily forget a face. Yours is quite distinctive. As are your manners."
"I want to show you something," Tommen added, setting the cat down. He waved the cautious Stark over to the fire, knelt and pointed towards the flames. In the depths of light slept a dragon, curled up with its tail waving about.
Arya gasped softly. "Ash!"
"You know this dragon?"
She nodded. "It belongs to the Queen but I did not think I'd see it again. It swam off outside King's Landing… Careful, it's not like the others."
"What do you mean?" Tommen asked.
"The other three are siblings. They hunt and sing together. This one's different. Like a stray. She barely looks at it. The Queen has been keeping it in a cage."
"Like us?"
"I'm not stray," Arya riled. "And nor are you. You've a father and an uncle."
"Not a mother?" Tommen lowered his voice, as if he'd guessed the answer.
Arya's hand flexed at her side. There was a bruise left by the chain cutting across her palm. "Cersei died. Tyrion..."
Tommen shook his head, deciding he really didn't wish to know his mother's fate in detail. Not yet. "Is that why you are here – to retrieve the Queen's dragon?"
"I don't care about dragons. Obviously they are real – as real as direwolves but they belong in the East. The Valyrians used them to kill Nymeria's people. They burned beautiful cities to the ground."
Tommen frowned. "The Dornish hero?"
"She was a princess of the Rhoynar. The Dragon Lords destroyed the Rhoyne so she took her people across the seas to Dorne. They feared her. She was an adventurer – a warrior. She never did what other people expected." Arya spoke of her with an unusual level of admiration.
"Ah, the romantic version that maesters tell children," Tommen agreed. "We've all got stories like that in our Houses. I'm sure old maester Luwin picked her because you like to hunt with your brothers and better them in play. The Dornish gifted the Crown with many history books when Robert sat on the throne, including detailed accounts of Nymeria and her army of dispossessed. Yes, she was loved by those who survived her conquest – possibly not so much by the Kings of the Torrentine… By all these honest stories, some writ in her own hand, Nymeria was not a warrior but she did lead men into war. Indeed, she is not so different from the dragon queen."
Arya hissed at that accusation. "Nymeria is nothing like the foreign queen."
"No, you are right," Tommen kept his eye on Ash sleeping within the flames. "Daenerys Targaryen was born across that bay, on Dragonstone. She has come home and she will wrack a terrible vengeance on the houses that unravelled her empire. I heard Varys whisper it one night. We are both on that list, Arya Stark. Your father led a war that killed her brother and my father thrust a sword through the last Targaryen king's back. We are the same to her."
"Is this your plan – to hide in sea caves until you starve?"
Tommen shook his head. "I have a son – or soon enough I will. Dying in shit does him no service. We are headed to the pirate camp on Dragonstone."
"I have met some of these pirates. They stew weak kings and leave the bones in the pot to soften."
He'll die anyway, Arya told herself, as she slept on the sand floor inside the crabber's cave. The Faceless God could collect that name himself. It wasn't weakness or compassion. It was… Arya rolled over to face the cold, black wall. Killers should not ask questions of the faces they come to take. Subtlety is the enemy of resolve. That was something her father had taught her, sitting under the red tree at Winterfell. Do what you must, he had insisted, when you must. Ask not what the gods want. The gods are old and have problems of their own.
Is this mercy? Compassion? Those words were distant from Arya.
The Stark girl was gone come the morning. Tommen stoked the coals in the fireplace, waking Ash who batted at the poker then got up and stretched its crimson limbs in a cat-like manner.
"The wolf-child is right..." Tycho sat up, head full of sand. He'd aged a decade from the rough night. "Dragonstone will be your grave when the Queen finds you there."
Tommon scooped the baby dragon into his arms. Remarkably its scales were cool to the touch. "The Queen will seek to kill me, I'll not deny it but not yet, old man. Not yet… My grandfather taught me something very important when he realised that my brother was a tyrant not long for the world. He took me aside, sat me in that ghastly room of his and said, 'Always remember what you are – a piece on the board of kings. Pieces have value. Value has power. Power has consequence.' If you know your own value, you can predict the outcome of people's decisions – even kings."
"Or queens."
"Yes, Tycho, or queens."
The banker could not pick fault with that logic. "I thought the girl might have killed you in the night," he admitted. "She had a look about her."
"I am sure that is what she intended," Tommen replied. "Now that she's had her chance, I needn't be worried about what's waiting over my shoulder. Hurry up. The crabbers are waiting. They'll take us to the rough side of the island. From there we're on our own."
HIGHGARDEN – THE REACH
'I saw it myself, hiding in the foothills of the Red Mountains with a frightened group of town folk. The whole sad thing played out, as if staged by a travelling theatre for the amusement of the gods. It began with a field – soft underfoot, prone to flood from the nearby Mander river, not quite able to reach Blackwater Bay except in a hundred trickling streams. That morning it was particularly blue and the open grass fields brittle with age waving about in a breeze that hailed from the South. The army was so beautifully still. The higher the sun rose, the more golden they became. White banners and green hands. Roaring lions and red tears. No one had ever seen three dragons take flight – black, silver and green.'
"Sorry… Ah-"
It was clear the Tyrell guard did not know Sam's name. That was to be expected. He was used to being an unknown, in fact, often he preferred it. "Sam will do," Sam replied.
"Honeywater." The guard set the cup on the desk where Sam's old book lay open. He hovered, tilting his head curiously. "What is it that you read?"
"Oh this?" The book was a good half-foot thick with a red silk ribbon laying down the open page. "The Dance of Dragons. I found it open in the library. Perhaps I should not have borrowed it-"
"I am certain it is permitted. Our Lady Olenna is a great reader."
"This is the page I found marked." Sam turned the book slightly so that the guard could read. "The Field of Fire." He could not help but feel that Olenna Tyrell had given more thought to the coming war with Daenerys than anyone gave her credit for. She had learned the lessons of House Gardener and aligned herself behind the wall of flame – unlike his foolish father. "It says that they brought the bodies of House Gardener back to the Reach and buried them-"
"-in the field between the castles..."
Sam had often looked from Horn Hill's perch at the fertile orchids, absurdly green even in the late Summer. "The bounty of Highgarden is the profit of their death. My father found amusement in the stories. While men wage war the earth lays in wait to feast upon the dead." He paused, as another column of flame rose above the bank of Highgarden's green walls. "It does not matter how badly that dragon scorches the crops – they will regrow, stronger than before."
There was another roar, like thunder. It accompanied the jets of fire breathed from Drogon's throat. "The other men," the guard stammered, "they did not think anything so green could burn."
"Dragonfire is different..." Sam replied. "I've seen it turn King's Landing's walls into glowing rivers and mud into glass."
"Is it true what they say? That King's Landing is a pile of smoking rubble in the sea?"
"Parts of it," Sam nodded. There was a furnace in the air before she appeared, the Queen on dragonback, darting in and out of the highest flames – barely a speck.
"And the Sunspear?"
"I have not been to Dorne."
"She won't burn Horn Hill," the guard assured him. "It is a good fortress – far better to leave a thing like that standing."
Hundreds of Tyrell soldiers waited along the first of the Highgarden's high walls. Most were armed with bows and, as the walking burned stumbled toward them in panic and terror, the archers cut them down. Many had to look away as they let fly with their arrows. These people were kin. They played as children. Married between each other. Partied in great halls when the harvest moon held sway over the sky… One of the Tyrells walked out onto the fringe of battle and took a man in his arms, helping his blackened body to the ground before sending a sword through his side. His flesh was so burnt that the blood flowed grey and was left dry on his blade.
They must be screaming, Sam thought, but he could not hear them above the roar of the churning flames.
Sam wanted to launch himself into the fray – hold up his arms and beg for the slaughter to end. To help, at least, the injured but the Queen was absolute. The entirety of Randyll's army was to perish on the field. She was drafting a song, one that would be wept upon throughout the realm. He wished he could disagree with her logic but Daenerys was right. Killing these men in such a brutal, public fashion would save thousands of lives throughout the realm. Like her ancestor, the great conqueror Aegon, she understood the importance of ending a war in haste.
Sam could not think of any house that might stand against her after this day.
"The others are saying that you are a traitor to your House, Lord Tarly." The guard had returned and this time, learned Sam's true name. "H-how can you sit here in the shade of the Highgarden and watch them burn? These are your men."
"Like this..." Sam was surprised by the coldness of his words. He had been staring at the violence for so long he numbed to it. The murdered were becoming numbers in his mind instead of faces. "And they are not my men, at least – not yet. I am a brother of the Night's Watch turned maester. My family bonds were broken long ago."
"Not in your heart. Those can't be broken by a few whispered words in front of a bone-tree."
"Even so… I watch so that I may set this scene in ink. One day your children's children will read this moment in my unsteady hand." Sam tilted his head back. "Although I doubt I can properly convey the shade of orange in the sky or this ash that seems to fall out of nowhere. Never learned many words for 'fire'..."
"Maybe this is why you do not have a maester's chain..." Even in the thick of the sobering war, the strangers shared the shadow of a smile. "Many are saying that the Targaryen is mad like her father. Is there truth in their fear?"
Sam shook his head. "No. What possesses Daenerys is something more frightening that madness."
"Power, then..."
"It does not interest her. The Dragon Queen is a zealot. You are a looking at a god granted wings." And neither of them could look away.
The Tarlys did not die in the order Daenerys intended. Dickon was a fool. At full gallop he charged Drogon as the beast skidded low above the open field – claws dragging in the grass. Drogon flicked his tail, hit Dickon's horse and threw both him and the animal ten feet. They landed in a pile of lifeless steel. As Daenerys sailed overhead, she had just enough time to watch the horse lay its head down on the grass in surrender.
Randyll had a keen eye for battle and a strong will to survive. Daenerys caught sight of him riding full hilt through his men. He cleared their dissolving ranks before she could dissuade Drogon from his current path of destruction and vanished into the high stone walls that guarded Horn Hill's flanks. He knew his history. Only dragons could fight dragons in open fields but in the narrow, stone crypts beneath the settlement, Daenerys would have to follow him on foot if she wanted his head because there was no man alive in these hills that would come for it on her behalf.
Daenerys laid low on the dragon's back as it took another pass at the fields. Flame ripped through the air with an unsettling hiss which soon became as distinct and frightening as rolls of thunder. It was a sound which the world was learning…
Coward, Daenerys throught. The old war monger was trying to goad her into a grave.
After the soldiers were all dead or dying, Daenerys landed Drogon in front of Horn Hill. Smoke welled up from each pile of flesh while fronts of fire that had caught in the dried corn were swept along with the wind, ravishing the harvest. It did not occur to Daenerys that the corn many not grow again for many years if the snows came or that the corpses on the field were not the only victims of her blood-letting politics. Behind, Highgarden had turned an alarming shade of green in contrast, almost as dark as the jungle of Ulthos. A hand reached up from the ground and caught hold of her boot. She tripped onto the stinking ground – black mud up to her arms and pieces of bone nicking her skin. Turning, Dany found the dying creature with half his face smouldering and a single pearl eye, sightless, staring. Kicking, she tried to shake the corpse free but its bony fingers dug into the leather like a vice.
Dany sat up, contorted her tiny frame and grasped at the soldier's arm. Mhysa… The chant of Meereen echoed in her mind. Mhysa – Mhysa – Mhysa – on and on as she unhooked the dying man's fingers from her ankle and backed away through the muck. Robbed of hope, the soldier rolled onto his back and let his life sink into the ground along with the blood and ash of his friends. Dany searched the skies but Drogon was roaming the field, feasting.
A Tyrell soldier cantered toward her. His grey-speckled mare nodded its head as he tugged back sharply on the reins and dismounted. He pulled the Queen from the mud and waited patiently as she wiped her face and brushed her braided silver hair over her shoulder.
"Lord Tarly hides inside his palace crypts."
"What is your wish, my Queen? Shall I send the men in after him?" There were other horsemen riding through the smoke. A glittering chrome army with blue rose banners brandished to the sky – not a single dragon in sight.
"No. Ride to Highgarden. Dress Samwell Tarly in something suitable then find him a sword and bring him here."
Jorah would stop me. With Drogon lumbering over the fields and the Tyrell soldiers scrambling inside the Horn Hill fortress, Daenerys was left standing at the entrance to the catacombs with a company of men. The stone archway was the same colour as the Meereenese walls. Similarly pale and scuffed from war – made from sandstone dug up in the Red Mountains where it was not quite so red. Long stretches of weather had sucked their pink and ochre hues and rounded their edges. Now, they stood more as bone than beauty.
The interior maintained its youthful blood. There was no door on the entrance which oddly faced the undefended North. Inside the shadow, the surface was burnt umber, deep and rich with rivers of fools gold embedded in the blocks. Only the first few torches had been lit and their reach was short. Beyond the flame the narrow tunnel twisted off to the left and out of sight with a terrible pair of fighting bulls embossed on the stone with inlaid copper horns.
Samwell Tarly had already rounded that corner and headed deeper into the maze. Even his footsteps had faded to nothing. The only sound left was that of the wind, cutting too close to the rock. The Tyrell men beside her said nothing but she knew exactly what they were thinking. This is not what was discussed but it would answer a few of her questions in a way that prevented lies. Whomever emerged from the crypts – if anyone – paid for their lordship as the Dothraki did.
Violence was honest.
Sam's sword felt heavy and ridiculous in his shaking hand. He held it as Jon had taught, keeping the torch in his left. Sparks flew, dancing and dying on the walls which were adorned with roughly painted hunting scenes. Deer, rabbit, bears, wolves, lions and unicorns pranced over the surface chased by a hail of spears and crudely drawn men. Sam thought they would fade away as he drifted deeper into the catacombs but they thickened, suffocating every spare surface like the graffiti on Castle Black's tables.
"Fascinating..." He breathed, stopping in front of one display. A star had been drawn, falling across the stone with bodies scattered everywhere, dead.
"I agree."
Sam whirled around so fast his flame died leaving only the torch carried by his father alight. Randyll stood in the centre of the passage. He'd discarded most of his battle armour except for the glorious House sword Heartsbane which remained sheathed save for its ornately carved pummel. Years had passed since Sam had laid eyes on his father. He was surprised to find him older. His grey hair was white. The shadow of a beard disfigured his sharp jaw and his usual red shirt was covered in soot. He was thinner, with shadows cast beneath his collar bones and blemishes writ in skin that had spent long decades campaigning in the Summer sun.
Randyll laughed as he hung his torch upon a waiting iron claw set in the wall. "Robert Baratheon was often mocked as a stupid man but he knew a thing or two about war. He knew when to wage it and how to keep the threat of it at bay. If Eddard had listened, our men wouldn't be bone and ash and she would be another forgotten child, murdered on the fringes of the world."
Sam was too frightened to reply. His father cast the greatest of shadows in the world. He'd lived beneath them his whole life.
"Nothing to say?" Randyll taunted. His body was rigid – disciplined even in abject defeat. There was nothing left of his honour and yet it bound his bones. It was not something that could be taken. Then his tone softened. "Straighten up then boy – hold your bloody sword properly. Didn't they teach you anything up there at The Wall? Alliser's a gullible, brow-beaten, overfed shit but he's a fighter. On a good day he's even a reasonable swordsman and a hard fucking bastard to please."
Sam remembered being packed into the wagon by his father – the rain pouring down and a pair of bored soldiers piling in bags of dried dates beside him, bound for The Wall. The dates had more value than him. He had watched his home fade into a smear as they took the Ocean Road then days and nights bouncing around in the mud with the sea crashing up against the dizzying cliffs and gulls screaming out their lungs as they descended on Crakehall. Weeks on the road spent staring at the point on the horizon, beneath the flap of canvas turned into dreams where he imagined his mother seated at her window, weeping tears she never shed.
Randyll drew Heartsbane. The flames from the torch reached for it at once, arcing out longingly toward the ashen blade. "You do not even flinch. That is something, I guess."
"Queen Daenerys-"
Randyll shook his head. "Yes – yes. She is not the first general to send a son after a father's head. Do you understand her wager?"
This time, Sam managed to nod.
"Studious, more your style. It is a war tactic made famous by a Rhoynish siege, only in the historic case it was a much loved bastard and you are a true-born disappointment." There was no evidence that Randyll regretted his harsh choice of words. "Your brother is dead. The glorious dragon queen burned him where he stood. He is probably still there being picked at by corpse birds." It was a guess but one way or another, the first of his boys was dead. "A man never had a finer son. His life was for nothing because nothing will come of us... Tears?" He noticed Sam's cheeks wet. "It is too late for tears. Your mother threw herself from the Oak Tower when she saw the dragon in the dawn light. I am glad for it. She never had to see her boy ruined." Randyll faltered as he spoke of his wife. Those old, grey eyes of his paled with a sheen of salt. The finer lines in his face quivered, holding back a tide of sorrow. Even the cliffs loved the sea.
"Liar..."
"Liar – liar?!" Randyll screamed the last word, staggering forward with his sword raised. "Boy, you risk much to call me a liar. I am not a duplicitous bastard like the rest of them. I can imagine the Tyrells, standing out there – cowering behind a child."
"We are the sworn liege lords of Highgarden-"
"We are the sworn liege lords of the Iron Throne." Randyll bellowed. "Highgarden conspired to overthrow the rule of law and hand the empire to a dragon bitch. Hundreds of thousands of good men died to see the last Targaryen fall. Open your eyes, boy. There is nothing but scorched earth wherever she treads. A monster like her father, through and bloody through."
"The Queen is not mad."
"No. I have it on good authority that she is quite sane unlike that hunched bastard who whispered horrors to himself, night and day and the Spider that hissed them in his ear. Young Prince Rhaegar was madder still. He saw fit to destroy the Seven Kingdoms for a fleeting song. Jealousy and Love. What a waste. Your queen believes with absolute authority that she is right and therefore can justify any volume of blood required to purchase her dream of Spring. You are many things, my boy, but you are not stupid. If you intend to follow the Targaryen after this day then you must be privy to information that I am not."
Sam wiped the tears from his face with his sleeve. "The army of the dead are coming. All the terrible things that we'd banished to the shadows of memory have come out into the light. They are led by soldiers made of ice. I killed one of them myself – beyond The Wall. The Dragon Queen has seen them too and she believes that the Stark words are true – Winter is coming. I was there when Lord Commander Snow was awakened from death by a fire witch. You said that Thorne was gullible but Lords Varys and Tyrion are not – nor was King Stannis or Mance Rayder. Every day more names add themselves to the list of those who side with the Queen not because they want her to sit on the Iron Throne but because they don't want to freeze to death. They're afraid. I'm afraid. We're all scared shitless. The waters of the Trident have already begun to freeze. Snow is sneaking onto Riverrun and soon enough it will strangle these hills. That's why I left the Night's Watch – I thought I could find the answers Jon needed inside the Citadel."
"Did you? No. Of course not. I could have told you that. If there is anything of use it'll be buried deep. The last thing the maesters want is for anyone but themselves to know the truth. You should have tried the Nightfort, boy. Everyone knows they have the oldest library in the Seven Kingdoms." Slowly, Randyll lowered his sword. "This is the last conversation we'll have in this world, are you sure you want to waste it on some old story?" He could not bare it. Randyll shook his head then nodded at Sam's sword. "Get on with it, then."
"N-no."
"The Queen sent you down here to kill me."
"Yes but-"
"If you fail to obey her I promise she'll feed you to that dragon of hers. Learn to recognise a test, Samwell, kings and queens are fond of them. They like to prove the loyalty of their creatures."
"I cannot kill my father..." Sam whispered, almost losing his grip on the sword.
"And I'll not live another day without your mother. It was you that brought the Targaryen bitch here and you that killed her." Randyll came at him in a surge of rage, knocking both the torch and sword from Sam's hands. He pushed his boy up against the catacomb wall, nearly crushing the life from him. "Would you rather it were me that walks out of these crypts? Would you?" Randyll demanded. "The first thing I'll do is swear allegiance to that whore queen then go and find that Wildling and the child of hers. I'll skin your woman alive and throw the boy into the sea. If he doesn't drown, the rocks and crabs will have him." He felt his son push back but not hard enough to shift the blade. "Next I'll pay that bastard Snow a call. If he won't die, I'll tie him to a sacred tree and set the whole thing alight. We'll see how resilient he is to the quickening flame."
Sam pushed his father so hard he hit the opposing wall then he scrambled for his sword, brandishing the cheap steel while the torch flared on the ground. "I won't let you touch my family."
"Then fight. Show me that you are my son!"
Sam tried but Randyll met him every time, easily fending him off.
"Higher. No – don't chip away at your opponent – commit to it. You have to want it." Randyll coerced him.
Training him, Sam realised, and immediately pulled back. For a moment, he thought he saw his father's eyes smile. "You don't have to so this," Sam gasped, breathless from the fight.
"I want you to survive," a difficult truth to draw from old Taryl's lips. "You are all that is left of this family. If you won't honour me, honour that. Take that Wildling of yours and have a hundred children. That's all that matters now."
The tears were thick in Sam's eyes. They blurred the flame and his father's face. "Did you ever love me?"
"You have your mother's eyes and I loved her. I suspect I loved her as much as you care for this Wildling – why else would you agree to the Queen's demands if not to keep her safe… You are not the sort of boy to hold a sword to his father's throat to come within reach of the throne."
"Perhaps not." Sam agreed, tossing his sword to the ground for good. It clattered wearily without a single speck of blood. "Truth is, even if I wanted to, I couldn't kill you. I have a better proposition."
"I am certain that you do." Randyll bent down and picked up the cheap iron blade. He shook his head and offered his son the Valyrian sword instead.
"I don't want it..." Sam insisted.
"Too bad. You have it."
KING'S LANDING – WESTEROS
Viserion grew paler. He'd shaken off most of the brown hues from mountains behind Ghis and strengthened the branches of gold that crept over his wings. His leathery wings were stretched tight revealing pulsating veins. Dragons used their wings to cool down and tonight he had them partially unfolded.
"There's no denying that you are a great beauty," Jorah whispered lovingly, reaching out. He placed his hand upon the dragon's snout and felt the creature push back lightly against him. The dragons were learning how to contain their strength although they remained slightly awkward, occasionally knocking over caravans with their sweeping tails or brushing walls down with a stray, powerful wing. There were times when Jorah wished that he could hold one of them in his hands again and feel their tiny hearts thump as he'd done in the Red Waste. "No," he added, when Viserion began to snort, frisking him for evidence of food. "I did not bring you anything. I think we can quite agree that you have had enough for today." He worried that a diet of human flesh might give the creature a taste for it.
The dragon made a nest for himself on the top of the Red Keep and filled it with charred human bone. The scene may have shocked him ten years ago but Jorah was immune to the ways of dragons. Viserion was wet from playing in the sea and littered the stone with beads of water. Jorah rested against the low wall and laid his head back to look toward the evening sky, searching fruitlessly for Rhaegal until he heard footsteps rise hurriedly up the spirals steps. Viserion heard them too and snapped his enormous head around with a growl.
"Easy – easy!" Jorah grabbed onto one of the horns sprouting from the side of the dragon's face and used his weight to drag him back. "Ser Seaworth – I shall tell you this once, it is unwise to rush a dragon."
Davos pulled himself to a dramatic stop as the dragon's hot, smoking breath wafted all too close to his head. Rows of black, curved fangs glistened with saliva. He froze, eyes locked on the terrifying sight. This was the second time he'd found himself face to face with a dragon in as many days. The Queen's largest – the black one, was very different but no less unnerving. "A-a-apologies..."
Jorah calmed Viserion, whispering words in High Valyrian until it brought its paw forward and scratched at the stone floor. "Dragons are quick to startle," he waved Davos onto the roof. "Think of them as unbroken horses."
"Horses that can take yer head off..." Davos added, unable to shift his eyes off the creature. "I spent a good deal of time on Dragonstone with King Stannis. There were plenty of dragons carved into them sad walls. Never liked it much me-self. All them staring out with mouths open and exaggerated fangs. Never saw the appeal."
"And now?" Jorah's voice dragged calmly, as the creature snorted a puff of smoke over him.
"Warming up ter the idea." Then there was silence as the Northern knight stared expectedly at Davos. "Oh – right… Yer were wondering why I'm here."
"Curious, perhaps."
"Has anyone told yer that yer've lost most of yer Northern accent?"
"All Westerosi sound the same to a Dothraki hoard. They say I am an Andal then wonder why it sets me in a sour mood."
"They are an unusual people," observed Davos carefully. "Excellent horsemen. Do yer miss the East?"
Jorah was suspicious of the intrusion but Viserion was an adept judge of danger and he was purring softly – enough to shake the air. "Can you miss the breath of death upon your neck?" Jorah replied, running his free hand up and down the dragon's snout. "The poets say those are the moments life burns hottest."
"Mostly Summer Isle shits. Never seen a day of sand in their life."
He laughed softly. "I have a few scars from those years, as does our Queen. She learned the ways of the world at the sharp end of the sword." This time it was the Red Keep that quivered underfoot. It was a faint rustle – barely enough to nudge a little of the mortar loose. Viserion pulled his lip back, exposing his fangs. "Have you noticed that the ground is shaking?"
"Aye. I noticed." Davos admitted, resting against the low wall. He chose to ignore the growing pile of human bone collected around the dragon's feet. "Thought it was normal – spent me life at sea. The water is always movin' about."
Jorah slowly shook his head and cast a wary gaze toward Dragonmount. "No. It is normal. The Dothraki were singing prayers around the fire. They believe the great stallion is riding the fiery roads of the underworld, on his way to this life."
"To – save them?"
"No. To fuck the world." It was difficult to tell if the smoke laying on Blackwater Bay was solely from the destruction of King's Landing or coughed up by the mountain when no one was looking. The coast was littered with rises of rock that crawled into the ocean in arches and plinths, forged in agony. "Why are you smiling?"
"Only – the dragon. I knew a little girl once, loved ter read stories about them. It was her that taught me most o' what I know of history. Before that, 'Targaryen' was just a name and dragons were piles o' old bone." A pause of sorrow. "She was burned alive by her own parents ter buy a warm morning. Can't say it were worth it. Won't forget her screams. I 'ave to imagine them as I weren't there to hear them me-self. That's why I came up 'ere."
"To tell me about Stannis murdering his daughter? A wasted trip. That is a story I have heard before."
"No aye. It's your cousin. A fierce creature, if ever I saw one. She has more wisdom than a maester and more sense than the entire Stark lineage. Honestly, if that five foot monster asked my sword of me I'd wade out into the snow on me own to kill whatever she asked. That said – she is still a child, Ser an' she is alone. It is inevitable that you two will meet. Be kind. Was not her tha' did the banishing."
"What do you care of House Mormont's fate?"
"My children are all dead..." Davos replied softly. "Out there," he nodded at the Blackwater. "The only future I have belongs to somebody else."
Jorah petted the dragon again before the enormous beast lowered itself to the ground, folding its legs underneath, lay its wings on the wall and stretched them right out like great sails. "You and me both, Ser Davos. I have no children either."
"Of course. Sorry. What are you – fifty?"
"Not quite..." Jorah lifted one of his eyebrows menacingly, daring Davos to challenge him.
"Do you remember those days, long past now, when the women wore gowns of lurid colours? Hideous things left to soak in dye far too long, imported from Norvos and Pentos? Aye, yer do. I can see. Thought they were perfectly joyous when the women got twirling about. In the court of kings, the ladies were like blooms from Summer and then men-"
"Bees, circling eagerly, no doubt." Jorah finished dryly.
"I'd have those years again. Again and again… If I could stop time that is where I'd leave it."
"Endless Summer?" Jorah asked, his mind drifting back to the season of festival. He had hosted feasts as Lord of Bear Island and draped his ugly hall in expensive floral bowers shipped in from the Southern end of the realm. His wife had been one of those women – arms held aloft, head tilted back and eyes fixed on the grand chandeliers as she danced. That was when she smiled. When she moved, the world moved with her. The trappings of kings melted her heart but it quickly froze when the gold ran dry. Just like her smile. Jorah looked away, deciding he preferred the evening air.
"I don't think this Targaryen girl cares much for gold trinkets."
"Queen Daenerys has never worn anything so vulgar as a crown..."
Marwyn caught the raven in his hands. The creature's wings instinctively folded in while its head bent around to pick angrily at his hands. He tipped it over onto its back, charming the raven into calm as he untied to the message from its leg.
Marwyn was on his feet before he had finished reading. Stumbling over the open fire, he picked his way through the Unsullied tents spread out over the field – searching for the path into town. He snatched a lantern from one of the guards, muttering a hand-fisted thanks. Sam and the Wildling had left the city and the Queen, whose eyes should have read it first, was busy sacking the Reach so Marwyn searched for the Mormont knight. His trail ended at the Red Keep. The Dothraki guards had seen him enter the remains of the palace but no one could say where he went after that.
"Drink?" The goblet appeared before the imp. "What was your name again?" An alarmingly drunk Tyrion raised his glass from the bank of stain glass windows running along the wall facing East. He was half-collapsed, ensconced in his wine-induced delirium and every inch the debauched rumour that circled the realm.
Sweat dripped off Marwyn's broad forehead. He could not run another step, nor could he face a bottle. "Might you know where Lord Varys is?" He asked carefully.
Tyrion snorted into his glass and immediately sent beads of red wine over his shirt. He said nothing – simply pointed upwards, indicating the steps at the side of the room. Tyrion laughed again and began to sing of a god with tits which the world suckled, growing fat. Marwyn took the steps at a rush, dragging his weight up them using the stone bannister as a ladder. There were so many hateful blocks beneath his feet he thought his heart might clench and fail.
Marwyn tried to knock on Varys' door but honestly, as he lifted his hand to the heavy surface he stumbled forward with exhaustion and pushed it open with his shoulder. The interior of the room was dark, lit by a single lantern on the table to the left and an open window that let in the stench of smoke from the city.
Varys was knelt on the floor sorting through a pile of books with vast ink stains on both hands. "Archmaester Marwyn..." He drawled, in surprise. "May I be of assistance?"
He had forgotten how dark the Spider's eyes were when they weren't beside a flame. Marwyn collected himself, closed the door and used it as a prop to keep himself upright. "You are getting thin, my friend." He replied, to which Varys grinned as the reverse was not true. Relaxed, he continued stacking piles of books, pausing at a few to cast his eye over their spines. "How far do you and I go back?"
Thump. Thump. Thump. Each hefty book buried the next. "Better that neither of us recall."
"A vast chasm of time," Marwyn ignored the subtle advice. "Long enough that I can show you this."
Varys had to squint at the damp, crumpled scrap of raven's paper. "Marwyn, it is far too late in the evening to tease me." Thump. "Either tell me what you've lugged all the way up here or come close enough so that I may read it for myself." Thump. "I am not so young nor patient as I once was."
"Your patience is a thing of myth..." Marwyn puffed. Sweat stuck his clothes to his skin. Part of him longed for the freezing Winter. The humidity of the South drove was going to kill him. "It is a note from Castle Black addressed to me at a place where I once stayed with an old friend of mine."
"Another one. Marwyn… You have quite too many 'friends' all of which have loose mouths and spread legs."
"Leyton."
Varys' hands stilled on the pile of books. That was not the kind of friend he had imagined.
"Now I have your attention…"
"Lord Hightower is not so much a friend as a curse." Varys warned. "His notions infected your better judgement. There was a time when you were a promising young maester."
"And you, a perfect street rat."
Thump. Varys returned to his pile of books. "What does this letter say?"
"Not a great deal. The Lord Commander writes to explain that he has in his possession of a document written in Asshai'i found in Eastwatch. He asks that I travel immediately to The Wall to assist in the translation of this document but there is no hint about what it might contain."
"No doubt something old and useless..."
"Ye of little faith. While you were busy feigning an interest in Leyton's collection of antiquities I went to the trouble of studying many of the specimens and it may interest you to hear that this is not the first time a Lord Commander of The Watch has begged help from us," Marwyn continued, "but it is the first time I have seen one of their ravens veer off course of their own volition. This should have been found by one of my dear Archmaesters at Old Town."
Varys was troubled. "How," he added, "did the bird know that the intended recipient of the message was in the ruins of the Capital..." Neither of them were willing to speculate. "Is that all there is then, a request to read an old scrap of rubbish?" Marwyn nodded. "Can you decipher it?"
"Of course. I dare say so could you. Perhaps with a little less finesse."
"I hope you are not suggesting that I pack up and ride off to The Wall in a flurry of panic… You should know me better than that, Marwyn."
"No. It would take a great deal of effort to shift you from this fortress now that you have regained your perch. There are webs all through these old hallways – most of them yours. However… Someone must go, and it would seem that someone is me."
"What are you here for – permission? I am not your master, Marwyn. Come and go as you please. I shall even send your kind regards to the Queen, if you wish. There's a wagon full of dragonglass leaving before dawn. You can ride with them."
Varys had a point and Marwyn should have left things where they were but he had been visited by ghosts in the perfumed whore houses. He heard them breathing whispers. Questions lurked at the back of his mind that had risen to the surface of his conscience as the empire's foundations shook. The decades that passed between him and Varys were mostly done so in silence. There were unasked questions that deserved answers. The world was heading toward a point in which they might never speak again. "Have you wondered, Varys, who it was that wanted Leyton dead?"
"Half the realm and everything East of the Narrow Sea, I imagine."
"I am perfectly serious…"
"So am I," Varys insisted. "Old Leyton had his hands in a great deal of coffers. He owed alarming debts. Stole cursed relics. Hoarded treasure from the vaults of paper kings. Read from forbidden texts and offended the very order that tried to give him a chain. The only thing that surprises me is that he lived to see his hair go grey."
"And you may have a point, if he'd been found poisoned in his sleep or thrown from the Hightower but Leyton was not only killed, he was replaced. The Faceless Men from Braavos are an expensive way to deal with an old man on the other side of the world. There is not a maester in the Citadel that could spare the expense and fewer still with the means to coerce the violent cult into anything more elaborate than murder. What was their purpose in impersonating him?"
"That much, at least, is obvious."
"Not to me..."
Varys decided to leave the pile of books and struggle to his feet. He tried to wipe the ink stains from his hands but it had sunk deep leaving his skin squid-like. "Leyton spent his days sending vast quantities of letters across the realm. One might assume that whomever it was, intended to send a letter."
"To whom?"
This time Varys shrugged. "That is a secret which died with Leyton."
Marwyn looked again at the crumpled paper in his hand. "Perhaps it was the answer our faceless friends were interested in and our murderer was actually a spy in search of privileged insight?"
"Does this matter now, Marwyn?" Varys asked impatiently. "Whatever the intent, however sinister or benign, it failed at your hand. This could have been a simple case of political jostling between the wealthy Southern lords. Dorne was always fond of a good intrigue. Or maybe all your worst fears came home to roost and the Order of Maesters really were making overtures into politics using one of their least favourite pets as a talking corpse..."
The slightest smile curled the edge of Marwyn's thick lips. "Funny. The old man always loved his birds. He kept the crows inside, nesting with the books and stinking out the corners of the room. The white gulls he fed on the limestone window sills. Hundreds of them, shitting all over the tourists below. I was once one of his birds and you one of mine."
That was a reminder Varys did not enjoy and imparted a stern warning to Marwyn to watch his words.
He did not. "You were a street rat that tried to pick my pocket, rather poorly, if I recall. Illyrio needed a pair of ears and you needed a favour to buy my forgiveness. My, my… How our fortunes reversed over the years."
"We are even, you and I," Varys reminded him, calmly. "You helped me find the priest that took my balls. I am ever grateful."
"Not quite. You asked a few more favours of me since then."
"Of which you were most obliging."
"I would argue that acquiring that fancy little sword of yours puts my neck in the lead. You should have seen Illyrio's face when I presented it to him but it is remarkable what you can find in the un-documented treasure vaults of Volantis. Oh… He didn't tell you where it came from? I suppose you presumed Illyrio conjured it out of the dirt. He was no magician and I, no saint of the Seven. Where is the old thing?"
A shadow fell across Varys' face. Marwyn watched it descend, like a maiden's veil. As it fell, so too did a few loose threads of a web. With all his focus on the Winter winds, he'd ignored his own eyes. The truth hit as a wave between and there was no hiding the reveal – leaving him no choice but to voice the horrid thing aloud. "Illyrio is dead."
"That is no secret." Varys remained still as the marble statue of the lion behind. Only the lantern light shifted across the pale surface.
"You killed him." When Varys did not attempt a denial, Marwyn felt his chest heave quite involuntarily. "On the boat. Of course. What merchant worth his salt sinks in calm, shallow waters... Why?" He almost begged the word but Varys refused to offer anything in reply. "We all had an agreement – a pact. Now Jeor is dead. Willem is almost certainly dead. Leyton is dead – and Illyrio?"
"I did not kill Leyton – or Willem and Jeor for that matter."
"No. I don't believe you did." Marwyn knew that he was crushing the note inside his fist. It was all he could do to keep his temper. "But you did kill Illyrio." He shook his head in grief. "He was a good man. Gods be fucking damned, Varys, he was the reason you survived. What the hell were you thinking?"
"Drink and indulgence, Marwyn, a pair of vices of which you are acquainted. Illyrio was a fragile mind in possession of dangerous things."
"Seven hells! So the man liked a goblet of wine and the company of fine women… For this, you see fit to slaughter?"
"It was only a matter of time before he betrayed confidence. Age did not suit him. He was softening. What we are striving for is fragile. The slightest mistaken breath will send it toppling into the sea."
"So that is where you sent poor Illyrio – tumbling into the sea with all the worst fucking gods?" Marwyn could see the ghost of that ocean lapping beyond the arched window. He walked over to it and braced his hands on the stone. The sour, ash-laden air mocked his misery. "I do not believe you. There had to be another reason..."
Varys closed the space between them, lingering a few feet behind Marwyn – close enough that the moonlight cast a glow over his features. Beads of sweat rolling down his bald crown glowed like stars, falling through the night. "I hoped to spare you."
"Piss your sympathy."
"Illyrio made a deal with Cersei Lannister. A chest of gold for Tyrion's head in a box. He was going to take the offer."
"Varys… You killed your best friend for a lion pelt." Marwyn kept his eyes on the black waters and the ships that lurked within the smoke. It was a graveyard without headstones. He did not care to imagine how many skulls rolled about beneath the waves.
"You are my best friend-" Varys tried to say, but Marwyn scoffed harshly.
"Where is the sword?" He closed his eyes. The truth continued to unravel. Nothing could stop it. "Oh I see. You enlist poor Illyrio, persuade him to acquire a priceless relic which you cannot afford then sail to Braavos. You bought a name and killed the only person who might have guessed. Who do you want dead – what name do you whisper to the gods?"
Varys struggled to swallow. All the colour drained from his face until he was white as snow. "He – he had to die."
"Varys, I warn you. If the Daenerys Targaryen heard that you killed the man who orchestrated her escape from Robert Baratheon's blade she may very well feed you to one of her beasts and I would help her do it. Poor Illyrio… Poor – poor fool."
"Oh – dear Marwyn," replied Varys, tears glinting in the white light, "threats from your lips are as good as shadows in the darkness. You could not help a crow kill a spider."
A strong hand fell onto Marwyn's shoulder. He struggled. Pushed himself from the window but Varys gripped the flesh hard and dug his fingers in with such agony that the larger man whined like a whipped horse. 'G-off! Get-off!' The muffled demands were smothered as Varys pulled Marwyn's face back by his sagging chin, exposing his pale throat. Varys looked into Marwyn's eyes as he plunged the letter opener into Marwyn's neck. It did not go in as easily as the sword. He had to throw his weight behind the blade until it punctured the flesh and slashed the side of an artery. Blood spun off in a fountain, pushed higher with each of Marwyn's panicked heart beats. Marwyn pawed helplessly, scratching like a rabid stray.
The large man should have died but he kept breathing, mumbling horrific gurgling protests. He twitched in Varys' arms. The Spider pulled back on the blade and stabbed it in again. Marwyn bucked in agony. His knees buckled and the pair of them fell to the stone floor.
"I-I'm sorry..." Varys stammered, as a tear broke. He wrapped his arms around Marwyn. The man's breaths struggled as thick blood poured down his right side. "Die..." He begged, at the terrible sound of Marwyn choking on his own blood. "Just… Die..." Varys wanted it to end but Marwyn had set his eye on the sky beyond the window. He was staring at the stars and scratching at the stone.
Varys looked at the stars too. Hateful things. A Priestess is Volantis once told him that they were burning windows through which the fire watched. As the glass candles burned, so too would the sky. He did not like sharing his secrets with the gods.
Then he realised that Marwyn lay still. The parchment from the Lord Commander was scrunched in his hand. Varys pried it loose and hid it inside his robes.
He lowered his cheek onto the top of Marwyn's head, keeping him in a morbid embrace. Two terrible creatures at the centre of a web.
