August-September, 303 AC


The night was black as pitch when Irri rose from her featherbed, desperate for a breath of air that was not stale. She dressed herself in the dark, quietly so she did not wake her handmaids. Let them rest; Irri remembered well how poorly she slept when she spent her nights at the foot of her khaleesi's bunk.

A gust of clean salt air assailed her when Irri reached the top of the ladder. She drank it in greedily, grateful to be above deck once more. The carrack's deck rolled beneath her feet like a nervous filly as Irri made her way to the rail, her eyes fixed on the horizon.

She saw no sign of Volantis, of the great beacon fires which guided ships into the vast harbor. No, the waves stretched on forever, gleaming green-black in the faint light of the crescent moon, a thousand thousand tongues that lapped hungrily at the ships foolish enough to dare risk the endless sea.

Irri rested her elbows on the rail, unmoved. She was not the same scared girl who sailed from Qarth, who retched at the slightest swell and hid below decks with the rest of her tiny khalasar. Forty days they had spent upon the open sea, and every single day she had come above decks to test her will. Worse foes awaited her than the god of the poison sea, last and least loved child of the moon and sun. The god of the poison sea was indifferent to men, saving his hatred for his elder brother, the lord of all horses, who'd won the love of the goddess of the earth.

No, she might respect the poison sea, but she did not fear him. Her fear and her hate belonged to another, as it had since the day he won her eternal enmity. Euron Greyjoy might have set sail beneath the light of a rising sun, but the stars still glittered overhead. They looked down upon her, bearing witness as Irri vowed she would one day see the color of the Andal's blood.

That day drew nearer with every puff of wind that filled the carrack's sails. In Volantis they would find the Andal traitor, or so Moqorro had sworn to Queen Daenerys. The news had set Irri's heart to galloping, just as it galloped when the queen finally granted her permission to join the fleet bound for Volantis. Daenerys might have only sent her to ensure Ser Olyvar Sand did not betray the queen, but what did that matter? Irri was here, and when she faced Euron Greyjoy again, she would be armed with more than a bronze pitcher.

No longer were Irri and her sister Jhiqui mere handmaidens. After saving their khaleesi's life Daenerys had named them erinak, her ladies, the highest ranking women not only of their little khalasar but of all Meereen. Silk and damask replaced cotton and wool; the wealth of House Galare replaced wages of coin. Though they still dressed their queen each morning and undressed her each night, their days were spent not in servant's work but in serving upon the queen's council.

Jhiqui shone like the sun in her new role. Their mothers had always praised Jhiqui as a girl for her even temper, for her knack of making every stranger a friend. As a woman grown, her elder sister had only grown better at discerning the hearts of men. Much though they might argue amongst themselves, the freedmen's council adored Jhiqui. Unlike the queen, who could not help hovering over poor Prince Aegor, once Jhiqui set each freedman a duty, one chosen carefully based upon his talents, she then entrusted him to do it, without constant oversight. Not only that, but she made each of them feel heard, and troubled herself to learn their tongues just as she had once learned Andahli.

Sometimes Irri envied her sister's skill; though forced to learn High Valyrian by sheer necessity, she lacked the time or interest to learn further tongues. Thankfully, she did not need them. Her duties lay not with the freedmen but with the Dothraki. The tiny khalasar which had crossed the red waste was under her protection, as were the Dothraki among the freedmen of the Dragon's Bay. Further, it was Irri's responsibility to treat with the khals of the Dothraki Sea, winning as many allies as might be had.

Vaes Vishaferat, formerly Yunkai, was Irri's greatest accomplishment. How carefully she had wooed Khal Moro, and how well had her efforts been rewarded! Not only had the khal saved Queen Daenerys the trouble of conquering Yunkai once more, but he had helpfully perished before he could accept her offer of Jhiqui's hand.

Thankfully, his son Khal Rhogoro had been satisfied to wed his sister to Ko Jhogo whilst awaiting the day Jhiqui reached the auspicious age of twenty. Hopefully Jhiqui would get along with Rhogoro's wife Sarnai as well as Irri did. She enjoyed their regular correspondence, sharing thoughts on everything from the difficulty of governing of stubborn city people to the growing number of Dothraki turning to the Lord of Light. Most of the freedmen of Yunkai had worshipped the red god since childhood; seeing Rhogoro make offerings at the red temple soothed their discomfort with bowing to a Dothraki khal, though Sarnai found the red priests rather irritating. Queen Daenerys might be powerful, and blessed by the gods, but she was no more Azor Ahai than she was the stallion who mounts the world.

Irri was not so sure that she agreed. Sarnai had not seen the khaleesi emerge unharmed from the inferno of the funeral pyre. In truth, Irri would not have believed it, had she not seen it with her own eyes. Moqorro might speak of salt and smoke and a red sword to light the dawn, but what hero needed a sword, when she had already drawn a black dragon from the flames?

Dawn was creeping over the world when Ser Olyvar Sand led the cream dragon from the cargo hold. The Westerosi was tall and fair, but bore strangely little resemblance to his aunt Daenerys or her husband Prince Aegor. Where their skin was deathly pale, his was a rich golden brown; where their hair was silver, his was smoky steel; where their eyes were pure violet or indigo, his were purple, ringed with amber. Thankfully, Daenerys seemed oblivious to the fact that Ser Olyvar was far more handsome than her husband.

Though he still cannot match Rakharo, Irri thought as she watched the Westerosi vault into his saddle and dig his heels into the dragon's scales. And Rakharo would never be foolish enough to trade a horse for a dragon.

Let the Valyrians boast of their dragons; the Dothraki knew better. Horses were predictable beasts, as reliable as they were faithful. With training, a good horse was the best of companions, as trusted as a friend and as trusting as a child. A dragon, though, a dragon could not be trusted. An angry horse might kick or bite, but he would always threaten you first. He would flatten his ears, raise his head, and show his teeth, signs that even the slowest Dothraki child learned by the time they could walk.

Dragons gave no such signs. When the khaleesi's three dragons were the size of dogs, Irri and Jhiqui had been able to handle them without coming to harm. The dragons might hiss or lash their tails to show their displeasure, but they kept their sharp claws and sharper teeth to themselves. Until, one day, Drogon bit Irri without so much as a warning, and bit so hard that the scar from his teeth still marked the back of her hand.

When she showed her khaleesi the wound, she had not taken alarm like Irri hoped. No, instead Daenerys had worried that the dragons might burn their way free, abandoning their mother. Months later in Meereen, Irri had almost died from shock when the khaleesi gave the order for her children to be chained, heartsick at the death of the girl Hazzea.

Of course, the dragon who feasted upon children was the only one she could not catch. Drogon was the foulest of demons, as evil-tempered and ill-omened as his namesake. Irri could only pray that the Great Stallion never let Daenerys claim him. The beast would master her khaleesi, just as Drogo had, and turn the flame of her soul into a funeral pyre. Irri could not, she would not let that happen. Daenerys could not do what needed to be done; it was up to Irri to save her khaleesi from herself.

She eyed Viserion as he dove toward the waves. His rider sat securely upon his back, unbothered as the dragon snatched up a fish. The cream dragon tossed his wriggling prey in the air, roasting it with a jet of pale gold flame before snatching it in his massive jaws. Irri resisted the urge to cringe away at the sight. She had preferred it when the dragon was smaller than she was. Even a dragon the size of a horse would not be so bad.

But Viserion was much larger than a horse by the time he grew large enough to bear Olyvar's weight. The dragon was more than twice the height of his rider; from tip to tail he was four horse lengths, his wingspan five. True, the dragon weighed less than a horse, but that would not help Olyvar if the dragon turned on him. Neither bit nor bridle marred the clean lines of the dragon's golden crest and horns; there were no reins for his rider to guide him. How arrogant the Westerosi was, to place himself at the dragon's mercy and think himself master of a beast that could not be broken.

Disgusted, Irri left the dragon to his meal, and the deck to the sailors.

Her handmaids were already awake when she returned to her cabin. Whilst Ujin dressed her, and braided back her hair, Alagai fetched food and drink from the ship's cook. Irri forced herself to eat, glad that she would soon have better fare than salted meat and hard dried biscuits. Queen Daenerys had spoken wistfully of the food she'd once eaten in Volantis, of feathery light eggs beaten and cooked with herbs, of fragrant stews heavy with lamb and beans, of warm dimpled flatbreads eaten dipped in yogurt. Irri hoped she would have a chance to try them, before either slaves or dragons burned the city to the ground.

It was almost noon when the lookout atop the mainmast finally sighted Volantis. Thankfully, the dragon was already back in the cargo hold, hidden away out of sight. The sailors needed no distractions as they drew near the coast, nor the captain as he used a Myrish far-eye to search for the hidden cove where they had been directed to drop anchor.

Now that their journey was near its end, Irri summoned a meeting in her cabin. Two empty chairs awaited the final guests, whilst Ko Aggo and his kheshigs stood by her side. Three of his four bodyguards were men from amongst the Dothraki of Meereen. Chago, Toluo, and Qaso were former pit fighters, warriors who bore the scars of a hundred battles won. The last, Baido, was a youth of Irri's age, one of Khal Rhogoro's cousins. Untested though he was, he was fierce and fast, eager to make a name for himself and someday become a ko himself. It felt good, to have her own people at her back. Jhiqui might trust her freedmen to remember her words and follow their queen's will, but Irri could not be so trusting of the Westerosi.

After years of faithful service she might grudgingly trust Ser Barristan Selmy, but he was an exception. Jorah Mormont had betrayed his child queen, and might have raped her, had he been given the chance to satisfy his lusts; Euron Greyjoy had satisfied his lusts, and then stolen a dragon into the bargain. It was with good reason that Irri had watched closely for the slightest hint that Olyvar Sand might have designs upon Daenerys; even his blunt lack of interest did not lift her suspicions. Every Westerosi wanted something from Daenerys, and sooner or later this Dornishman would prove the same.

Irri eyed the Dornishman as he folded himself into a chair beside his sister, Nymeria. She cared little for the Iron Throne that plagued her khaleesi's dreams for so long, and less for the nephew who now sought to take it from her. But if Olyvar thought to turn against Daenerys... she would see him dead before he had time to take a single step toward his dragon.

To her surprise, the meeting quickly proved unnecessary. Olyvar had, in fact, listened to her many, many briefings on Volantis and the Three Daughters Myr, Tyrosh, and Lys. He recalled that Myr had halted trade whilst armies of sellswords drove her slaves back into the fields. He remembered that Tyrosh had lost a fourth archon in less than a year, beheaded in his bed just like the previous three and his head stuck atop a fountain. He even rattled off a list of the magisters in Lys currently trying to poison one another over old scandals suddenly brought to light.

"Well said," she allowed, after Olyvar recounted how the trouble in Lys had resulted in rising prices for salt, sugar, and seaweed. The Lyseni might boast of their beautiful bedslaves and courtesans, but their true wealth came not from the pleasure houses, but from the coasts and from the island's fertile fields.

"I do listen, Lady Irri," the Westerosi said, raising a bushy eyebrow. "Not listening would be irresponsible." He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Very irresponsible."

Both Irri and his sister stared at him, nonplussed.

"Ear-responsible," Olyvar repeated.

Baido gave a snort of laughter, his grasp of High Valyrian apparently better than his taste in jokes. Nymeria groaned, putting a hand to her face. "Gods, brother, why?"

Praise the Great Stallion that the Westerosi was Lady Sansa's husband, not hers. "Forgive me, ser," Irri replied, annoyed. "Given how rarely you attend court, I thought you might pay as little attention to me as to Queen Daenerys and her people."

Irri might speak High Valyrian and the common tongue of the Andals, but the knight had not even bothered to learn Dothraki, beyond a few simple words of courtesy. On the rare occasions Olyvar did attend court, he stood to the side, beneath a window, staring at Daenerys as though he was a tailor measuring her for a new dēl. Or a crown, Irri realized, her lips tightening. Who was this stranger, to judge a woman he barely knew?

"They are not his people," Nymeria purred, her lips curling in a smile. "Still. Let us not quibble amongst ourselves; you'd like to be rid of us, and we'd like to be gone. The sooner we complete our business in Volantis, the sooner we may part ways."

"We could part ways before Volantis," Aggo said from his place at Irri's right hand. If Irri trusted the Westerosi little, he trusted them not at all. A warning shake of her head was enough to take his hand from the hilt of his arakh, if not to wipe the cold look from his face.

That night as she stood by the rail, watching the carrack and the rest of the fleet as creep into a hidden cove, Irri wished yet again that Rakharo stood beside her. Rakharo would imitate the Westerosi's voices and make her laugh, not stand stonefaced and silent like Aggo did. A foolish wish, she knew. Her Rakharo would be miserable away from the horses he so carefully and lovingly bred and trained. Besides, she had chosen Aggo for good reason, not just because Ko Jhogo was content to remain in Meereen with his wife and newborn babe.

Of the three bloodriders Khal Drogo once gave to Daenerys, Aggo was the eldest, a staunch and steady man of twenty-five. Even the heat of battle could not shake his nerves; Aggo loosed arrows at men with the same ease and unerring aim which he demonstrated against practice targets. And the company of archers he had assembled for Irri were just as skilled. Most of them were Dothraki, but there were a few Summer Islanders among them. The freedmen's tall goldenheart bows could not be used on horseback, but they boasted a greater range than any double-curved Dothraki bow, save perhaps Aggo's, which was made of dragonbone.

The walls of old Volantis were dark as dragonbone when Irri first glimpsed them from afar. Long had the widow's sons watched the smuggler's cove for their arrival; they had not even waited for the fleet to drop anchor before rowing out to the carrack to fetch the widow's honored guests. Irri had known that the savage Volantenes did not hold with horses, but it still dismayed her to ride in a palanquin, her vision marred by thin curtains, her nose irritated by the smell of Aggo's breath. He sat close to her, as though the two Westerosi might attack at any moment.

Irri was more concerned about attack from without the palanquin, not within. When they reached the outskirts of the city it was to find rows of wooden crossbeams, each with a dead or dying slave nailed upon it. Tablets graven with Valyrian glyphs stood beside them, to tell the world of their crimes. Her eyes were drawn to one who had the Dothraki look, or so she guessed from what was left of his dark hair and coppery skin. The tablet said he had been caught in the streets after curfew without his master's leave, and raised an arakh against the tiger cloaks when they arrested him.

"A brave death," Aggo said softly, when he had finished murmuring a prayer for the dead. "He must have tired of waiting."

All Volantis was tired of waiting, it seemed to Irri. The slaves in the streets might bow their heads to passing palanquins and hathays, but their eyes blazed like coals, their bodies as tense as that of a panther about to strike. For a moment she thought the masters must be blind to not see the danger, until she remembered that the old blood of Volantis no longer set foot beyond their Black Walls, not since the purge of the Red Temple.

With five slaves for every free man, the triarchs had not dared move openly against the red priests who preached of Daenerys Stormborn, of Azor Ahai and the coming of the Breaker of Chains. Instead they had depended upon secrecy, upon swift and silent action. Unfortunately, the company of sellswords sent to arrest the high priest Benerro in the dead of night were not prepared for Benerro to escape their custody, flee to the highest pillar of the temple, call down a curse upon the masters of Volantis, and then set himself aflame.

It was a week before the riots ended, the streets running red with the blood of thousands of slaves and that of every priest who'd spoken of Azor Ahai. A new high priest, Colloquo, was chosen from amongst those spared during the purge, a puppet of the triarchs who condemned his brethren and preached of the happiness to be found in peaceful obedience to one's lawful master.

Their journey ended when the widow's sons brought them to a warehouse near the docks, its vast depths packed full of barrels and casks. The old woman waited for them there, sitting behind a table streaked black with soot. So this was Dysaria, the widow of the waterfront. Irri was not surprised by the foxlike face, nor the cunning eyes, but the woman was far older than she had expected. Her pale purple eyes were set deeply amongst a thousand wrinkles; only a few strands of white hair still clung to her bald scalp.

"We have met before, my lady," Ser Olyvar said, bowing carefully. With Westerosi banned from Volantis, he had chosen to wear a Dothraki dēl rather than an Andal surcoat; to Irri's annoyance, the deep blue silk set off his eyes and hair perfectly. Lady Sansa's work, no doubt.

The widow of the waterfront, however, was not one to be impressed by a handsome man. "Yes, last time you had a turban," she said, waving a gnarled hand. "But where is Daenerys? Come soon, we told her; whoever raised her must not have known the meaning of the word."

"Queen Daenerys is not here," Irri said to the old woman, brushing her long braid over her shoulder. "As your men surely told you already."

Dysaria's lips tightened. "We were promised aid."

"And aid you shall have. The holds of our ships are packed with steel, and we bring three companies of freedmen to teach your people how to wield it."

The widow leaned back against her chair. "They'll have more students than the Rhoyne has daughters. I've been hard pressed to keep my folk in line; every time I have them calmed, the triarchs declare some new law that sets them to sharpening their knives."

In their attempts to quell dissent, the triarchs had only inflamed matters further. Not content with the many laws restricting the rights of slaves, they had suddenly decided that the few freedmen in the city also could not be trusted.

"Idiots," Dysaria smiled bitterly. "The freedmen were never our allies; many of them thought it only fair that those not able to buy their freedom should remain in chains. Most of the rest were cowards, content with enjoying their freedom in peace."

Olyvar frowned, exchanging a glance with his sister.

"Yes, I'm a freedwoman," the widow sighed. "The triarchs think us like sheep; if one causes trouble, surely as the rest will follow. They thought making enslavement the penalty for every crime committed by a freedman would keep them quiet and frightened; instead it drove them to my door."

Irri raised an eyebrow. Were she a triarch, she would have given the freedmen even more rights, to set them against their former brethren. Granted, if she were a triarch, Dysaria would be dead by now. When Irri said so, the widow cackled.

"They daren't try it, not after the riots for Benerro. Doubtless they have nightmares of my dropping dead of old age, lest it be said they poisoned me. Oh, Marra?" The widow called to a Lyseni girl that stood by the wall. "Iosre for my guests, and quick about it."

Irri sipped at her cup, savoring the fresh taste of mint as the widow explained what had happened in Volantis since the last report reached Meereen. The triarchs might think the widow their greatest foe, save for the Mother of Dragons, but she had dozens of lieutenants scattered throughout the city, from the ranks of the tiger cloaks to the halls of the scribes. Dysaria had known the triarchs meant to burn down her inn, the Merchant's House, nigh on a week before it happened, giving her time to smuggle out most of her people and her wealth. Even Colloquo of the Red Temple was one of her people, chosen by Benerro before he began preaching of Azor Ahai.

"Benerro swore he saw a vision of the Black Walls melting beneath a scourge of dragonflame," Dysaria said idly, ignoring the way Olyvar stiffened. "Odd, that. Do you know, the old tales say that dragons possess a certain aroma. Brimstone clings to the beast itself; their dung stinks like that of lizards, but a thousand times worse."

Irri gave the widow a bland smile, stifling the urge to wince. So much for that. When the widow's sons drew alongside the carrack, she and Aggo had hurried the Westerosi down the ladder and into the rowboat, giving the widow's sons no reason to come aboard. If they had, she knew they would catch the stink which lingered no matter how often the sailors mucked out the dragon's den. Was the scent so strong that they could smell it from alongside the ship? Her nose must have grown as numb to dragonstink as it was to the stink of the stables.

"Truth be told, I would have preferred a dragon queen over a dragon," Dysaria said, drumming her fingers on the table. "It is her name that the slaves whisper in their prayers, and they speak of her Unsullied as if each one were chosen by R'hllor himself. Daenerys and her dragons might have set them free, but they say the victory at Astapor belonged to the Unsullied, not the silver queen. Yet instead of Unsullied you bring me freedmen; instead of a queen you bring me- what are you, some lost Targaryen bastard?"

"Not exactly," Olyvar said, his voice remarkably even. "Suffice it to say that Queen Daenerys sent me in her stead."

"To what end?" the old woman asked, her eyes hard. "We asked for Azor Ahai and a mighty host, and we have neither. Even a dragon cannot win a war by himself, though it be a war against rats such as these. Although..." A vicious smile lit the widow's face. "The rats are fond of hiding in their nest; let that be their undoing. The Lord of Light has been so good as to give us a dragon, and you shall wield it. Burn them out, all of them. Melt their Black Walls, and everything within."

Irri tensed; Aggo drew closer, ready to defend her if the widow turned sour. Both of them remembered the long arguments between the khaleesi and her nephew; they knew the words he was about to say. Nymeria was frightened too; wetness shone at the corners of her eyes, and her brother took her hand before he spoke.

"I am here to defend the Red Temple," Olyvar declared, his voice like iron. "Not slaughter innocents."

"Innocents?" Dysaria spat. "There are no innocents. Oh, some may shake their heads and sigh, or think themselves kind for favoring a clean death over one prolonged by days of torture, but they are slavers all the same."

"Yet Vogarro freed you."

The widow turned on Irri, every wrinkle of her face twisted with rage. "One slave he freed, of thousands," she hissed. "Because I pleased him, because I amused him, because I was a way to spite the cousins who would be his heirs if he died without leaving a widow. Bedslaves cannot marry, nor inherit; my freedom was for his benefit, not mine."

"I wasn't speaking of the old blood," Olyvar said carefully. "Both the old gods and the new hold slavery to be an abomination, the blackest of evils and the vilest of sins. But what of the children within the walls? What of the slaves who toil in the palaces?"

"R'hllor would bless their sacrifice." Dysaria sipped at her iosre, as coolly as though they talked of the weather. "I would gladly die a thousand painful deaths if I knew the masters would follow me to the grave."

I would not, Irri almost said, but she bit her tongue.

"Besides," the old woman continued. "Most of those within the walls are pampered lapdogs. Overseers, seneschals, artisans, all of them fools who think themselves blessed to serve the noble blood of old Volantis. They would rather gouge out their eyes than see that they are no better than the lowliest field slave."

Irri doubted that. Men might fear to face a hard truth, but they feared pain and blindness more. Even if Dysaria were right, surely there were a hundred lowly cook slaves and maids for every overseer or seneschal. Why should they be punished for the misfortune of living within the Black Walls?

"Perhaps," Nymeria allowed, with a smile that did not meet her eyes. "But your war is not our war, my lady."

Irri had remained silent too long. "The Westerosi wish to go home," she said, giving the widow an apologetic shrug. "The Free Cities are strange to them. Queen Daenerys would have bade them depart in peace, but when Moqorro warned her of the plight of the Red Temple, she commanded Ser Olyvar to go forth and defend it. She would have come herself, if not for the duty a queen owes to her people."

And because Daenerys has not claimed Drogon. Irri very much hoped the widow remained ignorant of that particular fact. Dragons might be terrible, evil beasts, but being seen to master them inspired a certain awe, one her queen could ill afford to lose.

"Queen Daenerys herself urged me to scourge the old blood with dragonflame on her behalf," Olyvar agreed, surprisingly quick to follow Irri's lead. "However, I am not the Mother of Dragons. If I sought to scourge the old blood as you ask... my dragon is young, unused to battle, and as willful as a newly broken stallion. If I give him his head, Viserion might burn down the entire city."

Irri stared at him, surprised once more.

"Hmph," the widow said, mollified. "I suppose it would be vexing if Daenerys' presence in the city resulted in one of the old blood's assassins finally claiming the staggering bounty placed upon her head. Watching them rant and rave over the silver queen's continued survival has been most amusing."

"I assure you, it is not." Olyvar's face was a stone mask, murderous. "Tread carefully, my lady. Witnessing one such attempt was quite enough. Daenerys may have freed herself from the assassin's grasp, but it was I who slew him, and I will not have you mock the strain these attempts have caused my kinswoman."

Shaken by Olyvar's unexpected defense of her khaleesi, over the next few days Irri watched the Westerosi even more carefully than before. Nymeria kept to her cabin, where she sat with a cyvasse set on her lap. The pieces were heavy, made of solid gold and silver, and set with gems; the gentle rolling of the ship at anchor did not disturb them.

Whilst his sister played cyvasse against herself, Olyvar Sand busied himself entertaining the increasingly unhappy dragon confined to his den in the cargo hold. The widow of the waterfront had insisted that they keep the dragon out of sight, lest he be seen by the slaves and incite them to revolt before the time grew ripe. Irri could not argue with the widow's wisdom, but she also did not appreciate sleeping on the same ship as an angry dragon.

She had to admit, Olyvar was doing his best to keep the dragon in a good temper whilst they waited for Euron Greyjoy to arrive. Every morning the knight brought the dragon a fish, still wet and wriggling. The beast would chase the hapless fish about the hold, tossing it in the air, kicking at it with his clawed feet, perhaps even taking a bite or two. When that grew dull, he was apt to blow bubbles in his water trough, and usually splash Olyvar for good measure. The better the dragon's aim, the more likely he was to be rewarded with a stream of curses and a swat to the snout.

That afternoon Irri noted that Olyvar's tunic was sopping wet. Despite having suffered such humiliation, the Westerosi seemed calm enough as he massaged oil into the dragon's crest and spines. To her disgust, the dragon was shedding yet again. His cream-colored scales littered the hold, most of them in piles beneath the beam he preferred to scratch himself against. When Olyvar turned his attention to the dragon's horns, Viserion leaned against him, stretching out his long neck before remaining still.

Ungrateful beast. He was never so patient when Irri tended him as a— was there a word for a young dragon? Surely the Valyrians must have had one; they would hardly condescend to call their prized monsters foals or puppies or kittens. Arrogant fools. "A dragon is no slave," her khaleesi once told the masters of Astapor, but it was a lesson Irri feared her queen might have forgotten. Daenerys often forgot the things she did not wish to know.

Not that Irri could blame her. At least Irri had grown up surrounded by her family, cherished and adored. Daenerys had grown up in her brother's shadow, dragged hither and yon by a man with a cruel smile and crueler eyes. Thank the gods Viserys had not haunted Irri's steps as he haunted those of the bedslave Doreah. He treated her more kindly than the Dothraki maids, but only because Illyrio Mopatis had let Viserys bed her back in Pentos. Doreah said he had pinched at her skin and yanked at her hair, all the while complaining that she was not meek and unspoiled like his sister.

But she survived Khal Drogo, and Viserys did not, Irri thought to herself, deeply satisfied. Her khaleesi might refuse to see truths she found too hard to face, but she was as brave as she was loyal, with a clever mind and a heart as kind to her people as it was fierce to her foes. She hoped Jhiqui and Prince Aegor were taking good care of her khaleesi in her absence; Missandei had been oddly distracted of late.

Her khaleesi needed taking care of. For all her good intentions, Daenerys was often thoughtless. She had declared the Unsullied free men at Astapor, but not thought to see to their wages until Meereen, when Grey Worm hesitantly raised the issue. Horrified, the khaleesi had seen to it at once, and to wages for Irri and Jhiqui and the rest of the Dothraki who served her. Irri supposed it was difficult to recall the needs of others when one's entire life had been spent fretting over one's own survival. Many of the freedmen were much the same, those who had been sold over and over again, never allowed to remain in one place long enough to set down roots.

Eighth moon waned slowly, at a pace that would make a turtle weep. Still there was no sign of Greyjoy, though Dysaria swore to send word as soon as the red priests saw him in their flames. Tired beyond words of her cabin, Irri spent most of her time on deck, with her archers.

It was a choice she knew she would regret. Grey Worm still mourned for Sure Spear and the other Unsullied who had died upon the beach. His adopted son, Essalor, was named for another of those lost to dragonflame, one who had been Grey Worm's brother in all but blood.

Irri did not like to think how many of her archers she would lose. Most of them were young, untested, eager to prove their mettle. They did not think of the cost of battle, not as she did. It will be worth it, Irri told herself one day, as she watched them shoot at targets arranged at the opposite end of the deck. It will be worth it if they are the last who die as Sure Spear did.

A few days later, her archers grew tired of their usual targets. They began practicing using bits of floating wood, or aiming at leaves on the trees that grew along the shore of the cove. Their boredom might soon become a problem, but Irri dared not let them wander the streets of Volantis.

The widow of the waterfront might be confident that she could keep the slaves from revolting until her fighters were trained in using the steel Daenerys sent them, but Irri was not so foolish. Dysaria might boast of her informers and her lieutenants, of her many allies amongst the slaves, but even she could not stop the inevitable. Not when every slave in the city was a piece of tinder ready to catch should one errant spark fly out.

Fire haunted both Irri's dreams and her waking hours, a problem not helped by the Westerosi's favorite topic of conversation when they came up on deck for a breath of fresh air. Nymeria drilled Olyvar almost as relentlessly as Aggo drilled his archers, though she favored history rather than archery. Over and over she made her brother recite the great battles fought between the dragons of his ancestors, Balerion and Quicksilver, Meleys and Sunfyre, Vhagar and Caraxes, and others Irri could not recall.

"What does grappling mean?" She asked one afternoon, annoyed after hearing the word a dozen times. Fluent though she was in the common tongue of the Andals, some words still escaped her. It did not help that she only ever heard the word as part of a single, useless phrase. "You grapple, you die," was not enough to discern a coherent meaning, though Olyvar said the phrase frequently at his sister's prompting.

"To fight at close quarters," Nymeria explained, switching to High Valyrian. "To wrestle, hand to hand. Or claw to claw, in this case." She turned to her brother. "Now, tell Irri why grappling in a dragon fight is a bad idea."

Olyvar stared at his sister, then heaved a deep, beleagured sigh.

"Because grappling almost always ends with both a dead dragon and a dead rider. While a dragon's scales will turn away steel everywhere save his wings, his scales do not protect him from another dragon. Whether from a bite to the neck or a slash at his wings, every dragon slain by one of his own kind perished by tooth or claw. Well, all save one."

"What happened to that one?" Irri asked, curious.

"Meleys was slammed into the ground from a great height, with Sunfyre and Vhagar using her to break their fall. The maesters say her remains were pulp even before they ripped her limb from limb."

"And her rider?" Nymeria prompted. Olyvar winced.

"Rhaenys was not found for several days, and her body was so badly burned some men questioned whether it was even hers." He glanced at Irri. "To be within grappling range is to be so close that a single fireball can kill a man instantly."

"Or not," Nymeria said sweetly. "Tell her about Aegon the Second."

When he was finished, Irri rather wished he hadn't. The false gods of Westeros had apparently not liked Aegon the Second very much. In a single battle, he not only shattered his hip and broke half his ribs. No, one of Meley's last acts before she fell had been to twist and spit fire at the rider whose dragon had locked his jaws about her neck. The gout of rosy flame would have slain him, if not for the chaos of the grappling dragons, who moved swift as snakes, never in the same place for more than an instant.

As it was, the flame had neither killed Aegon, nor missed him entirely. No, it had burned half his body, causing grievous wounds which Olyvar described at excessive length and in excruciating detail. Irri almost lost her breakfast when the Westerosi recited from memory a maester's account of how he cut away the armor which had melted to the flesh of the king's arm, a process which also required cutting away charred flesh, fat, muscles, and tendons, leaving the arm useless.

"Was that necessary?" Irri asked Nymeria, when Olyvar excused himself, lest the dragon grow bored from lack of company.

"Extremely." Nymeria's voice was smooth, but her eyes betrayed her worry. "Queen Daenerys may trust your archers to slay Greyjoy without my brother or her dragons coming to harm, but I do not. Nor can I bear to watch, not when I shall be helpless to come to his aid. But I can make sure my brother remembers the peril of dragonflame."

It was the middle of ninth moon when Irri woke to the stench of smoke and fire wafting from the direction of Volantis. Several days passed in a whirl of confusion as they awaited word from the widow's sons. Irri attempted to busy herself with painting a vest for Rakharo, but soon gave it up. The rolling of the ship marred her aim, and she did not like the risk of sitting on the shore, exposed like a rabbit in an open field.

Daydreaming of Rakharo proved rather more satisfying, if messy. Irri should have felt worse about making extra work for Alagai, who washed her clouts. However, as Alagai spent her free time sneaking off to couple with one of the archers and always came back smiling, Irri found her sympathy rather limited.

Irri had no sympathy at all for Dysaria, when word finally came of what had happened. It seemed one of the red priests had not known of the widow's many plans, nor more than he knew that high priest Colloquo could be trusted. So when the flames showed him a terrible thunderstorm booming over Volantis, lightning crackling over the very spot where Benerro died, he had taken his vision not to his superiors, but to the slave quarters.

By the time the tiger cloaks got word of what was happening, the red priest had already finished his sermon. At the sight of thousands of angry, determined slaves, some of them inexplicably armed with steel, most of the tiger cloaks had joined them. Chaos reigned outside the Black Walls as slaves dragged masters and mistresses from their beds, eager to enact vengeance. A mistress known for her cruelty was whipped to death in front of a cheering crowd; an overseer known for culling the sick and injured was set upon by slaves with hammers who smashed his bones one by one; a dealer in bedslaves was chained into the stocks, his girls laughing as he begged for mercy. They gave it to him, in a fashion. The bedslaves killed him by shoving a spear up his arse, but they only cut off his manhood and stuffed it in his mouth after he was dead.

"And within the Black Walls?" Nymeria asked, her voice tight.

Old Triarch Malaquo had taken charge, the widow's son told them. At his command every sellsword in the city had withdrawn to defend the Black Walls, or rather, those of them whose greed or arrogance outweighed their fear of the rioting slaves. Triarch Parquello was raising fighters; Triarch Alios was missing. Rumor held that Alios had escaped the city and sailed for the Disputed Lands, with enough gold to hire every sellsword within a hundred leagues.

It was Olyvar who asked for word of the Vhassars, when he saw his sister lacked the will to speak. Of them the widow's son knew nothing, save that former triarch Nyessos was calling for the Temple of the Lord of Light to be smashed to rubble.

A week later, Irri recalled the words with a sense of dread.

Nyessos might get his wish, Irri thought as she led her archers up the many, many steps of the Lightning Tower. Tallest of the Red Temple's many towers, the Lightning Tower stretched six hundred feet into the air, looking down upon the pillars, buttresses, bridges, and domes below. As she climbed she passed row after row of stone blocks, laid together almost seamlessly with no mortar between them. The stones' hues echoed those of a living flame, crimson and amber, gold and cream, even the ghostly blue only seen in the hottest of fires.

Irri hoped she did not become a ghost by the end of the night. Two days past the red priests' messenger had descended upon the hidden cove, seeking the envoys of Queen Daenerys. At last their red god had shown them the approach of the blasphemer, the godless savage who dared steal a dragon from Azor Ahai herself.

Thanks to Irri's orders and Aggo's stern discipline, the company of archers was ready to leave within an hour of the messenger's arrival. Their quivers were ready, filled with all the arrows they could hold; every archer had spare bowstrings, armguards, and whatever armor they favored. Irri and her Dothraki donned shirts of tightly woven silk, then covered them with shirts of lamellar.

Sewn from hundreds of small plates laced together and overlapped in rows, Irri could move far more quickly in lamellar than Ser Barristan ever could in his suit of heavy plate. And unlike Ser Olyvar, whose chaimail boasted as many holes as there were stars in the sky, she need not worry about an arrow splitting the thin steel rings to pierce the flesh beneath.

Queen Daenerys had been most confused when her bloodriders first asked for lamellar, soon after settling into Meereen. Rather than risk putting her foot in her mouth, Irri had let Jhiqui handle that awkward conversation.

"Khal Drogo was not like other khals," Jhiqui had gently explained, giving Irri a warning glance. "At his birth, the dosh khaleen foretold that he would never lose a battle. He went without armor so that he might terrify his foes."

That had made Irri bite her fist to keep from laughing; thankfully, she was out of the khaleesi's line of sight. What the dosh khaleen had actually foretold was that neither man nor blade would be Drogo's death. They had spoken truly. Irri had seen his death herself.

The khaleesi had not meant to wake anyone when she returned to the tent near dawn. When the khaleesi left, a silken pillow clutched in her dainty hands, Irri followed with silent footsteps. From behind the tent's flap she watched the khaleesi walk to the khal, who lay still on the hard ground beneath the open sky. Less still, when Daenerys climbed atop him and pressed the pillow to his face. The once mighty Drogo had squirmed and wriggled like a child, desperate for air, desperate to fling away the girl who knelt upon his chest. Daenerys did not weigh much, yet she weighed enough.

It was mid-afternoon and Irri's legs were sore and aching by the time they reached the balcony near the top of the Lightning Tower. The balcony was wide enough for four men to walk abreast, with parapets graven in the shape of flickering flames and a view that took her breath away.

Volantis spread out beneath her like the strands of a spider's web. But slaves were not ants, to be so easily held fast. They swarmed the streets and gathered in the plazas, their screams wafting faintly upon the wind. Clouds of smoke billowed from a thousand fires, and the taste of ash hung heavily upon her tongue.

"Aggo," she commanded, "see to your men."

Whilst Aggo arranged his archers to his liking, Irri said a grateful prayer to whoever it was that had built the Red Temple. Never before had she seen a balcony which encircled an entire tower. Once they were spread out, her archers could defend it from every angle without fearing even the smallest of blind spots.

The archers were still taking their places when a dragon's cry echoed overhead. Every face looked to the heavens; every hand save Irri's went to their bows. Half the archers had strung them, and a few already had arrows notched when sharp-eyed Ibaqo called out.

"White!"

A wave of Aggo's hand, and the archers paused, watching the dragon draw closer. As Ibaqo said, the wings of the dragon circling past them were cream, not jade. When it drew closer still, she could see Olyvar, sitting his saddle as easily as if he rode horseback. But no horse had eyes like Viserion. Each eye was as big as her fist, if not bigger; their depths were pools of molten gold pierced by thin black slits.

When the dragon was not so near, Aggo drew close to her side. "I could have them shoot, when he circles back," he said his voice low.

"We are not speaking of this yet again," Irri replied, just as soft. "I gave you your orders, and you swore to the khaleesi that you would obey me."

Aggo tugged at one of his long mustachios, his eyes hard. Irri said nothing, merely looked at her captain, unbothered, as though his obedience were inevitable. When he turned away, she knew she had won.

They had not been on the balcony long when servants came bearing food and drink. Much to her dismay and that of her archers, there was no meat to be found.

"Today is the holiest of holy days," explained Arsynna, the red priestess who had escorted them in. "But there is rice, and fried sea bass, and blackened flounder, and skewers of shrimp roasted over the fire."

After months of ship's rations the Dothraki would have preferred horse or mutton, just as the Summer Islanders preferred fowl, but it could not be helped. Her archers ate up every scrap of food, slowly so as not to disturb their bellies. They would need steady nerves and calm stomachs when the sun began to set.

Once the food was cleared away, a dozen red priests made their own preparations for the dragon's imminent arrival. Servants brought chests full of brightly-colored powders, long iron staffs capped with dragon's heads, and pale white overrobes.

"They are woven from salamadar fur," Arsynna told Irri as they watched the priests put them on. "Found only in the mountains of the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai, and utterly immune to even the hottest fire."

Irri ignored her; the powders had given her an idea, one so obvious that she muttered a curse under her breath. She was careful to use a much more pleasant tone when she made her request to Arsynna, and she almost clapped for joy when a servant returned bearing a silver tray, a delicate paintbrush, and a small glass jar filled with a liquid that shone deepest green.

"Manticore venom," Irri told her archers when they were assembled. "Once the priestess dabs it on your arrowheads, you cannot touch them," she warned. "A single nick would be enough to kill you."

"Not quite," Arsynna told her when she finished. With so many arrows, and so little venom, she had been forced to apply the venom sparingly, lest she run out. Irri meant to ask her about it, but then the other priests began chanting.

Whilst the archers waited for their arrows to be poisoned, the twelve priests had taken up positions on the round balcony, placing themselves like the hours upon a sundial. As one they turned away from the tower to face the open sky, raising their dragon-headed staffs above their heads. A bright flash rent the air; the maw of each dragon shone with white hot flames. The air between the priests seemed to bend and twist; for a moment she could see nothing but waves of shimmering heat.

When the priests brought their staffs crashing to the ground, Irri found that she could see once more. It was akin to looking through a window of polished glass; she could see lights dancing out of the corner of her eye.

We can see out, but they cannot see in, she realized, excitement making her breathless. She had only just calmed herself when a roar echoed over the city.

For a moment she thought it came from the roaring of the crowds below. Irri turned toward the harbor, from whence the sound had come. Dark specks covered the sky as flocks of seagulls took flight, scattering in every direction save toward the sea.

Irri counted her heatbeats as she waited, keeping her eyes fixed on the clear gap where no birds flew. Another roar rang out, deep and guttural, with a rumble like the thunder of a stampeding herd. In answer came a piercing shriek, so close Irri almost clapped her hands over her ears.

The course of Viserion's circling had brought him back to the Red Temple.

Everything seemed to happen in an instant. Rhaegal emerged like a demon from hell, the rays of the setting sun setting his jade scales alight and casting his shadow on the city below. Straight for the Red Temple he flew, heedless of the headwinds that slowed his way, blind to the danger descending from above.

When Viserion slammed into him, she could have sworn the force of the collision made the ground shake. Rhaegal bellowed with fury, slashing out with his claws. Too late. As soon as he hit his brother, the cream dragon had folded his wings, letting himself plummet toward the ground.

A thousand ages seemed to pass as Irri watched, her heart in her throat. Was it over already?

Then Viserion spread his wings. Suddenly he was rising again, twisting and turning in the air as if to taunt his foe. Around her the archers cursed and swore and cheered, until Aggo barked for them to be silent.

Viserion was silent too. His brother was not. Rhaegal bellowed and roared and shrieked as he chased after his attacker, the Red Temple completely forgotten. The dragons were of similar size, yet it seemed to Irri that the jade was slower, his wings weaker. Rhaegal could not ascend above his foe, not when Viserion could ascend even faster.

"Come on," Irri urged. Great Stallion, bring them to me, please.

Her prayer was answered almost instantly, though not the way she hoped. Frustrated by the speed of his prey, or chastened by his rider, Rhaegal suddenly turned, descending upon one of the temple's gilded domes with a great gout of yellow dragonfire shot through with veins of green. The dome was close by; she could see the gold sloughing from the dome like melted butter, she could hear the screams of the people below as molten rain fell down upon them.

And she could hear Greyjoy, laughing like a madman.

Despite the heat of the dragon's flames, Greyjoy's face was not flushed but pale as milk. He was garbed in armored scales dark as smoke, dark as the patch he wore over one eye. In one hand he brandished a whip, thrashing the dragon unmercifully. No ordinary leather whip could harm a dragon; the lashes gleamed in the firelight, each one made of barbed chains that smote the dragon and sent smoking blood coursing down his scales.

Viserion screeched, he roared, he dove again and again, keeping just outside the range of his brother's flames, but Rhaegal could not be lured into resuming his wild chase. The jade dragon snapped, he bellowed, but he did not cease his assault, this time upon a graceful bridge which his flames turned to slag. Greyjoy's laugh disappeared beneath the crackling of flame and the roaring of dragons, but she could have sworn she saw his shoulders shake, his mouth open wide—

Until Viserion dove again, this time opening his jaws and unleashing a swirling storm of pale gold fire.

The flames barely kissed the tips of Rhaegal's delicate wings, but it was enough. With a screech he turned on his brother, chasing him straight toward the Lightning Tower.

"Ready!" Irri shouted. Her archers notched their arrows, prepared to draw at a moment's notice.

The dragons were already within their range, yet not a single arrow flew. Once the dragons knew archers were atop the tower, they would never draw near it again, no matter what their riders willed. One volley was all they would get; it must come at the right moment.

Viserion slowed as he approached the tower, careful lest he slam into it. Rhaegal was not so wary; he beat his wings harder, seeing only a chance to finally catch his brother. The cavernous jaws opened, then snapped shut.

The cream dragon shrieked in agony. In a single vicious bite, Rhaegal had snapped off the tip of Viserion's tail. The jade dragon tossed his head back, and swallowed his prize with a victorious gulp.

It was a victory he had no chance to savor. Pain had not addled Viserion's wits, nor those of his rider. The cream folded his wings and dropped, only a heartbeat before he hit the tower. Rhaegal was less fortunate. The jade dragon slammed into the stone wall, the whole building quaking from the force of the blow. Down and down the dragon fell, his wings only catching him when he was halfway to the ground.

Her archers drew their bowstrings taut, eager to take aim at the thin membranes of the dragon's wings as he struggled to stay aloft.

"Not yet!" Irri yelled. Below she could hear Euron Greyjoy cursing his dragon, shouting of the death of the gods and the ending of the world.

A screech rang overhead as Viserion landed atop the highest parapet of the Lightning Tower, smoking blood streaming from his tail not even a hundred feet above her. She could have sworn she heard Olyvar cry her name, as if he knew exactly where she was and what she was about, as if he didn't care that he had just put himself entirely at her mercy.

"Draw!" Irri screamed as Rhaegal rose, snarling.

The crash had crumpled one of his wings; it beat sluggishly, giving him a lopsided tilt. He jerked erratically as he ascended, intent on his prey. One heartbeat, two, and she could see the hatred gleaming in his bronze eyes.

"Loose!"

A shower of arrows poured forth over her head. The few that stuck between his scales were mere pinpricks, useless; the rest bounced off the dragon's head and neck, as though tipped with cotton instead of steel.

All save one. A deafening roar split the world as the dragon reeled back. In spite of the smoke and screams, some archer's aim was true. An arrow stuck from the dragon's left eye, the shaft buried in the black slit, the molten pools of bronze turning dark with blood.

He cannot see us, Irri told herself as the dragon flew straight at the balcony. Lights still danced at the corners of her eyes; the red priests still held their staffs and their spells. He cannot.

But dragons were clever beasts, and even the most dimwitted horse might recall from whence an arrow came. Rhaegal could not see the balcony, but he didn't need to.

A furnace wind drove Irri to her knees as the dragon unleashed his fury on the opposite end of the balcony. For an instant she could see her archers as clearly as though they stood beneath the sun at noon. Sly Temmo, shy Loso, Ibaqo of the sharp eyes, sweet Xhochar of the Summer Isles, who could leap from yardarm to yardarm as easily as another man might cross a narrow stream, who loved to dance in the rigging.

All of them were dancing now. The inferno held them in its fiery grasp, veins of green flame twisting her archers about like puppets as their skin blackened and charred. Only the red priest resisted the flames, his spells and his white robes shielding him from harm. Or so she thought, until the priest's iron staff blazed white hot, and he released it with a scream, clutching at his maimed hand.

The lights in the corner of her eye vanished as if they had never been. With a bellow the jade dragon landed on the parapet, ignoring the taunting screech of the cream dragon still perched overhead. Rhaegal did not spit flames; he slashed at the archers with his claws and tore at them with his teeth, blood and limbs flying through the air. He gave no heed to the rider on his back, lashing him relentlessly, the whip biting into the dragon's scales, tearing open the knobbled scars that rose in stripes along his neck and shoulders.

Her eyes wept for her archers; her heart burned with rage. The cream dragon had taken to the air once more, wheeling above the tower, trying to provoke his brother into giving chase, but that was no use. Rhaegal was too wild, too lost in his fury and pain. The only way to drive the jade dragon from the balcony would be for Viserion to dive at him and grapple, a risk so deadly she knew Olyvar would not take it, not until it was too late.

I must end this.

A strange calm filled Irri, cool as water. She had known this was her battle, and she would never have a better chance than this. Most of her archers might be fleeing for their lives, but she still had Aggo, who stood beside her, his kheshigs at his side. They had not fled, but stood frozen, stiff with fear, as though the slightest movement would draw the dragon's wroth.

But when Irri screamed, they moved as one.

"The rider," she cried, her voice hoarse.

Chago and Baido's hands flew to their quivers; Toluo and Qaso notched their arrows; Aggo drew back the bowstring of his mighty dragonbone bow and took aim.

"Loose, damn you, loose!"

Somehow, Greyjoy heard her.

An errant puff of wind cleared the smoke that hid the dragon and his rider from her sight. Whatever power a dragonhorn bestowed, it did not stop a rider from being tossed about like a rag doll. Greyjoy whipped the dragon viciously, as though that might cease his writhing and thrashing as arrows rained down once more, the archers shooting so fast she feared they would run out of arrows. At last the jade dragon stilled for just a moment, raising his wings to flee.

And in that moment, by some miracle, Irri caught his rider's eye.

Greyjoy stared at her, with an expression of utter confusion as unguarded as his face. Of course he had not bothered to wear a helm. He had not expected to find archers here. He had not expected defiance from anyone who did not ride dragonback.

He had not expected the arrow that grazed his unprotected temple, leaving a line of bright blood streaking across his face.

Irri screamed her triumph as the jade dragon took flight, leaving behind smoke and flame and an eye patch fluttering to the ground. Some of the red priests cheered, those not busy putting out the fire at the other end of the balcony or tending to the wounded. At her end of the balcony Baido whooped and shouted; his fellow kheshigs clapped him on the back, broad white grins splitting their smoke-stained faces.

Aggo alone remained aloof, his dragonbone bow still clutched in one hand, an arrow in the other. Together they watched the half-blind dragon wheel not toward the harbor, but toward the Black Walls. Rhaegal's wings struggled to bear his weight; each time his wings beat, he let loose another jet of flame. As he drew near the Black Walls, the dragon descended.

For a heartbeat Irri hoped the dragon might plummet from the sky, but she was wrong. Instead he belched fire at the parapets, turning stone to slag. Round and round the dragon flew, utterly rabid, wreaking his vengeance upon those who had done him no wrong. The tiled roofs of ancient palaces steamed and melted; the timbered roofs of slave quarters burst into flame.

An eternity seemed to pass before the dragon's mindless rampage finally sent him toward the harbor, giving the Lightning Tower a wide berth as he fled toward the sea, still spewing fire at the city below.

A hand clasped her by the shoulder. "He is not coming back," Aggo said, his voice low. His eyes flickered to his kheshigs, still wild with victory, to the red priests, busy quenching the last of the flames, then to Viserion, who perched above them once more.

"We dare not try once we return to the ships, unless you wish to swim back to Meereen," Aggo reminded her. "It must be now or never."

Irri looked up, up at the cream dragon. He blinked down at her with eyes that shone like molten gold. She could barely make out his rider's face, though she could see that he slumped in his saddle, weary, exposed. Defenseless.

"Never," Irri said, tasting the word, as if that would make her more certain of her choice. "I changed my mind."

Even so, she could not look away. Though her eyes stung from tears and smoke, she stared at the cream dragon until suddenly he spread his wings, gliding the short distance from the pinnacle of the tower to the balcony below. To her surprise, he landed not by Irri and her surviving archers, but by the red priests.

"Firebreak!" Olyvar screamed. "How do I make a firebreak?" His High Valyrian was slurred by terror, his arm wild as he pointed.

Irri turned and looked.

Below the tower, the whole world was aflame.


Can't wait to hear what you guys think!

Thanks very much to SioKerrigan, the-sober-folly, and brydeswhale, who all contributed ideas on the Volantis uprising. Also thanks to Strat, who assisted with dragon battle strategy, and of course, my amazing beta PA2 ZERO thanks to icloud Notes, which failed to autosave and deleted almost two hours of revisions.

Teatime_Cat requested a look at my writing process; you can view it here.

NOTES

1) Figuring out dragon sizes was a pain. I looked at refs from ASoiaF and from other fantasy works, and at the largest flying dinosaur, the Quetzalcoatlus. Right now Viserion is 15 feet tall, 30 feet long, with a 35 foot wingspan.

2) Irri's handmaids are named after Borte Ujin, Empress of the Mongols and wife of Genghis Khan, and her daughter, Alakhai Bekhi, who served as Regent of China.

3) The food of Volantis is based on Persian cuisine. Yes, medieval people had yogurt!

4) I wanted to be very careful with how I portrayed the various characters' views on slavery. All of them are shaped by their experiences, with understandably differing perspectives.

Dysaria, the widow of the waterfront, was a slave from birth. As a result, she's extremely militant. She has zero faith in "good" masters seeing the error of their ways or being willing to reform, a view supported by the behavior of the masters in Yunkai and Meereen. She doesn't care if the slaves within the Black Walls die, because she believes it would be worth it to free millions from bondage.

Then we have Irri, who was enslaved for a much shorter period of time, from around 11-15. As she was born the daughter of a khal, and is a former member of the slave-holding class, she's less enthusiastic about murdering all of them, and is sympathetic to slaves doing what they must to survive, as she did.

Finally, we have Olyvar. The Faith of the Seven taught him since childhood that slavery is wrong. He was appalled when he saw slavery during his journey through the Free Cities on his way to Dany but it's still distant and abstract to him. Olyvar thinks Dany freeing slaves is good, but Volantis isn't his place, or his people, just a hoop he has to jump through so he can go home and deal with the terror death winter that Sansa keeps having nightmares about.

5) I used crocodiles as an inspiration for dragon behavior; I wanted them to feel more remote, less familiar. That said, reptiles don't deserve their reputation of being flat/unfeeling; they can be just as communicative as mammals, we're just bad at reading them. Yes, crocodiles enjoy playing. Also, fun fact, baby crocodiles make noises that sound like someone firing a laser. Pew pew! Crocodiles can bellow with their mouths shut; listen here.

6) The Washington Monument is 554ft tall; it was originally supposed to be 600ft. That's what I used for my internal visual reference for the Lightning Tower. Please enjoy the terrible but surprisingly helpful ref I threw together in MS paint.

7) So, armor. The Dothraki eschewing armor because it isn't "manly" is some Conan the Barbarian nonsense. Both Mongols and Plains Indians, GRRM's "inspiration" for the Dothraki, did in fact use armor because it reduces the odds of being killed during combat.

Lamellar armor like this was used by the Mongols

Meanwhile, with metal extremely scarce, Native American tribes of the Great Plains made breastplates out of bone

8) Yes, people made cloth out of asbestos. Here's a modern example; it is incredibly dangerous to use because the particles get in your lungs and cause mesothelioma.