December 303—February 304 AC


There was too much light, he could not see.

Thousands upon thousands of fires blazed, their flames burning red and orange and yellow and blinding white. High though he flew above them, Olyvar could still feel their heat. The shirt beneath his chainmail stuck to his chest; sweat poured down his brow.

Viserion screamed. The dragon's cry split the air, louder than any warhorn ever blown, so loud he thought to see walls crack and towers fall. It was a warning cry, but it was also a cry of pain. Men and women ran for their lives far below, and Olyvar shared both their terror and the agony of the dragon close at hand. Smoking blood still pulsed from the stump of his tail; without it his flight was erratic, his balance thrown out of kilter.

Olyvar channeled the dragon's fury into their work. Downwind they flew, to the edges of the fire, Viserion still screaming as he swooped lower and lower, until his screams ceased, replaced by the roar of the inferno. He bathed the world in pale golden flames, scorching row upon row of cramped apartments, praying all those who lived there had already fled, but knowing they had not, he could hear children wailing—

He bolted upright, strangling the urge to cry out. The cat beside him was less circumspect; he made a noise of surprise, and sprung off down the featherbed.

I'm in Meereen, Olyvar reminded himself, his chest rising and falling as if he had run a race. He drew a shuddering breath, trying to forget the stench of smoke and burning hair and charred meat. One hand grasped out blindly, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of the sword lying to his right. It was not a spear, but still better than nothing.

Thank the gods he had not awoken Sansa. She lay on the other side of the sword, asleep, her breaths soft and steady. Olyvar echoed their rhythm, his eyes looking out the windows of the terrace. The sky was a dark, velvety shade; he guessed it was perhaps the fifth hour after midnight. Dawn would not come for long hours, but Sansa would be up soon anyway, used to rising before the Hour of the Crone.

Olyvar never rose so early. Nor did he join his wife when she went to bed several hours before midnight. They might share a bed at her sweet, stubborn insistence, but he could not bear to share it through the long watches of the night. And so he let her sleep it half away before joining her in repose, knowing she would rise long before he did.

Not today, though. Olyvar knew he would not be able to fall back asleep, not with his heart beating so fast, his pulse pounding against his throat. He bit back a groan as he rose from the bed, the greatsword still gripped tight in his fist.

A brazier stood in one corner of the room, its glow the only light other than that of the moon. Olyvar turned the greatsword, watching the firelight wake the ruby eyes of the dragon crossguards, watching the sapphire pommel gleam and shine beneath the gentle moonbeams.

It will need a name, he thought as he laid the scabbard back down upon the featherbed. Every blade of Valyrian steel required a name, one suited to its purpose and that of its bearer; his spear would need a name as well. Olyvar fetched it, feeling his breathing slow as he examined the smith's work.

It was far simpler than the sword, elegant rather than showy. The spear bore no jewels at all, save the little onyx eyes of the slim golden snakes that twined around the lower half of the socket. A golden sun in splendor stretched across the top half of the socket, drawing the eye away from the howling wolfs' heads engraved on the wings, each wolf crowned with weirwood leaves. The shaft was weirwood too, pale and strong, so different from the leaf-shaped spearhead dark as smoke.

There had been so much smoke, that terrible night. Fires raged across Volantis, but they had raged within the Black Walls too. Rhaegal had melted a few postern doors, sending the sellswords who guarded them fleeing. Whilst Olyvar and Viserion were busy making firebreaks, slaves had poured in in their hundreds and their thousands, some armed with steel, some only with years of sorrow and rage.

He knew nothing of the Black Walls, not until later. Olyvar and his dragon had remained aloft for hours, making firebreaks long through the night, past dawn, until near midday, when rains finally began to pour, quenching some of the flames. Then he had turned back for the Lightning Tower of the Red Temple, sagging in his saddle as the battle fever drained away.

Only a few red priests remained atop the tower, and only with great difficulty did he persuade them to inspect the stump of Viserion's tail. Even then, they would not lay a hand on the dragon for fear of losing it. Olyvar could hardly blame them; he tended to the wound himself whilst Lady Irri conversed in rapid High Valyrian with one of the widow's sons.

Dysaria had laughed herself to death, Lady Irri told him, when he was done with the dragon and she was done talking with Ko Aggo and her surviving archers. The old widow's lieutenants and the red priests were trying to restore order to the city; the foreigners and their dragon were to return to their hidden cove and await further orders.

Olyvar might have shared Lady Irri's resentment of such presumption, if not for how exhausted he was. Viserion did not fly back to the cove so much as droop in its general direction. When they landed, Olyvar slid out of his saddle, remained standing just long enough to lock himself in with the dragon inside the cargo hold, and fell asleep almost as soon as he laid his head against the dragon's heaving flank.

He had awoken to a bucket of water to the face and a very angry sister. Nym did not appreciate that she had learned of his survival from a member of the crew, or that she had to take an hour breaking into the cargo hold to check on him. She scolded him for at least another hour, while forcing him to eat as much as his roiling stomach could handle.

Sometimes it felt as though Olyvar had a stomache for the entirety of his time aboard ship. It was strange, being surrounded by Dothraki and freedmen, most of them strangers, and all of whom clearly held him in deep suspicion. Lady Irri did not even try to hide that she was watching him, and she'd watched him even more after their meeting with Dysaria.

Olyvar should not have lost his temper with the callous old woman, he knew that. He should have just kept his mouth shut, not gone off in defense of Daenerys. As unsettling as he found Dysaria's bloodthirstiness, he could understand the well from whence it sprang.

He could not understand why Lady Irri seemed so determined to think him stupid or lazy. He would not have minded if she had judged him for his terrible jokes, or for being half a craven. Olyvar was sick with fear almost the entire way to Volantis, especially when he and Viserion were circling the Red Temple, waiting for the green dragon to arrive. True, he had kept his head once the battle began, but any fool could focus on the moment, thinking of nothing but one step and then the next. Somehow he doubted Aegor the Conqueror had vomited immediately after the Field of Fire, choked by the stench of the dead.

Perhaps if he had, he would have been a better man, one less quick to wreak destruction. The voice sounded rather like Sansa. Olyvar glanced at the featherbed, making sure she was still asleep. His wolf wife's hearing might be astonishing, but she could not hear his thoughts.

She could hear Viserion's thoughts, though. How Olyvar had missed her, those long months at sea. He might sense the dragon's moods, perhaps even vague semblances of meaning, as though he looked upon a mosaic, but he could not speak to the dragon directly. Not that Viserion liked speaking to Sansa; he said her voice was grating. Rude beast, and wrong besides.

Olyvar dressed in the darkness, careful not to wake Gilly and her son, who slept on a pallet near the windows, or Edric, who slept near the door, as though standing guard even in his sleep. He might be Ser Edric now, not a mere squire, but nevertheless he would not be budged from his place. With light steps Olyvar crept through the door and into the hall beyond. He did not need an escort for so short a journey as he meant to take.

It was a short, brief climb to the Great Pyramid's little sept. It stood on the thirty-first level, near the queen's council chambers. Olyvar tried not to focus on the walls of scarlet brick that surrounded him, but on the seven altars. Over each hung a painting in the Myrish style, depicting the Seven as though they were born from Valyrian stock. All save the Stranger, of course, whose face was cowled and hidden in shadow.

Since returning from Volantis, Olyvar prayed seven times a day. The aroma of incense helped him forget the ghastly perfumes of war; the sound of a hymn drowned out the wailing of those he could not save. The septon was startled to see him at the Hour of the Crone, though. Olyvar usually only came at the Hour of the Father, three hours hence, observing the rest of his prayers wherever he was when the bells rang out the holy hours.

Please, wise lady, he thought, looking up at the painting of a wrinkled crone, her white hair in a widow's knot. Please, show me the path that I must walk. Guide my steps when they falter, and lead me home, if it be your will.

If he had his way, Olyvar would have arrived in Meereen, slept a single night, and then set sail for Westeros the following day. Alas, fate was not so kind. The Summer Islander fleet would not return from making the trader's circle of the Jade Sea until fourth moon. As tempting as it might be to hire other ships, Olyvar did not trust their ability to see him safely through the storms that churned across the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea.

There was a reason most captains avoided sailing those routes in winter, all save the most experienced or most foolhardy. Olyvar did not want to risk the chance of employing one of the latter going about in the guise of one of the former. Losing a few ships was inevitable, but by no means could he risk losing the one upon which he sailed. Meria's shade would haunt him through all seven hells.

Meria was extremely angry with their prolonged stay in Meereen. Make haste, she'd written. Or so help me, I will shove my qithara so far up your arse that you can pluck the strings with your tongue.

The letter from Aunt Mellario at Dragonstone had been almost as angry. She had ordered him to force Arianne to see sense regarding the appalling betrothal between his cousin Trystane and the bastard Myrcella Waters. Mellario must have been desperate, to think writing to him would do any good. So far as she knew, he was only one of Oberyn's many bastards. Of course, her son Quentyn was too mild and dutiful to argue with Arianne as the head of House Martell, and her son Trystane was too besotted to oppose his own betrothal. The elder sand snakes must have ignored Mellario, as they had ever since she left Dorne behind, weary of endless battles betwixt herself and her husband Doran.

Olyvar rose, brushing his knees off. A useless gesture, as he then promptly knelt before the Warrior's altar. Warrior Above, please. Help me be brave, without being foolhardy. Help me be strong, without being cruel. He had his own war to worry about, one fought with steel, not words. Heart in his throat, he beseeched the Warrior to help him know when he must avoid battle and when he must seek it out.

When Olyvar finished praying to the Warrior, he moved on to the Father, who oversaw not only the scales of justice but counting scales as well. Returning home would require more than the Summer Islander fleet. They would need meat and grain in vast amounts, not only when they landed upon the shores of Westeros, but regular shipments thereafter.

Father, please. Our cause is just, please help us prevail, and I vow to bring justice back to the realm.

There was not enough gold. They still had some chests of gold remaining from what Lady Cedra Santagar had assisted Prince Oberyn in smuggling out of King's Landing, stealing from Petyr Baelish's unknown heir what he had already stolen from the royal coffers. There was the gold made from the previous voyages of the Summer Islander fleet, and whatever gold they might make on their final round of the Jade Sea. So much gold it seemed, when Ser Gulian Qorgyle first showed him the sums, but not enough to feed the whole realm, should winter be as dire as his wife, the King in the North, and the Citadel all predicted.

Olyvar might not yet brave the rough seas, but Ser Gulian Qorgyle soon would. Someone must serve as their envoy to the Iron Bank, and the man had a keen head for ledgers and figures. Olyvar prayed that the Iron Bank would hear him out, at least. It was a long journey to make with so little hope of success. Meria's letters said the Iron Throne was in good standing with the Iron Bank, but he must try anyway. Perhaps the Father would smile upon him, and the Lannisters would suddenly run out of gold with which to pay the usury.

Olyvar snorted. Small chance of that, with all the mines of Casterly Rock at Cersei's disposal. Meria was dropping endless hints about the audacity of the Iron Bank, to demand such high usury, but it was to no avail. Greedy the Lannisters might be, but they did have some common sense, alas. Ser Kevan Lannister's word was law, not Meria's supposedly drunken giggles about those rude Braavosi, pestering the queen regent with their copper counting foreign ways.

At least the Tyrells remain in play, he thought as he knelt before the Maiden's altar. According to Meria's last letter, Lord Mace Tyrell was near apoplectic with annoyance at the queen's disrespect, compounded by her refusal to wed little Tommen to Lady Margaery. Protect her from the queen, o Maiden, just as you protect my sisters and my lady wife. Thank the gods the queen regent was so firmly set against a new queen being crowned. If Cersei had the sense to wed them, she would have Lord Mace eating out of the palm of her hand. Although, perhaps not. Once there was a new queen, it would be much easier to discreetly set the old queen aside. Lord Regent was a far better title than Master of Laws.

Olyvar knelt before the Mother's altar. Mother, help us defend our young and innocent, and I swear I shall do the same.

His own mother's words echoed in his memory. Do not, by any means, allow Mace to keep a council seat, mother Elia had advised in her last letter. At least one of his sons, surely, but never Mace. His ambition is endless; Meria says even Willas admits as much. I suppose you might wed Margaery, if you find it difficult to obtain grain from the Free Cities.

That said, you had much better stick with Princess Sansa. A wife who can speak to dragons is irreplaceable for a dragonrider, especially since your children would likely share her gifts. With your babe in her belly, I very much doubt Robb Stark would think of threatening war, not in winter, and especially not if the Others and their thralls threaten the North as the Night's Watch claims they soon shall.

Thank the gods he had asked Sansa not to read that particular letter, though he gave her leave to read all the others that arrived whilst he was gone. Princess Elia made it all sound so simple. It was both calming and infuriating, as infuriating as the lack of details in the letters from the North. Winter had arrived, they knew, but there was little from the Night's Watch as of yet, save reports that Stannis Baratheon had set out beyond the Wall with the intent of hunting down wights. That was almost a year ago; for all he knew, Stannis might have smashed the Others already.

Olyvar shivered as he knelt before the Stranger. What sins had brought the wrath of the gods down upon the Seven Kingdoms, that the Others should walk the world once more? Thousands of years they had lain forgotten, fading into memory, the stuff of winter tales beside the fire. All men must die, but surely not all of them at once, nor their women, nor the little children. How have we offended? Olyvar asked the Stranger yet again. How have we erred, what wrongs must we set aright?

Last of all he knelt before the Smith. Help me, he prayed, bowing his head even more deeply than before. Help me mend what has been broken, without breaking too many lives in the mending. Even a righteous war left men crippled and dead. Women might be raped, children orphaned, holdfasts burnt, fields abandoned. Let me be steadfast in my duty; help me bind up the realm's wounds and heal them stronger than they were before.

As much solace as he took in solitary prayer, the services every seventh morning were almost as soothing. On those days every worshipper of the Seven at the Great Pyramid visited the sept at the Hour of the Father. Together they held silent stillness as the septon made his sermon; together they raised their voices to chant prayers and sing hymns.

The first senmorn after his return from Volantis, Olyvar found himself leaving the sept not with Sansa, nor with Deziel, as he usually did, but with Aegor.

"I missed you, coz," Aegor admitted as they settled into the prince consort's solar. "I hoped to speak with you yesterday, but Dany needed me more than you did."

Several days had passed since Olyvar made his reports to Daenerys, a meeting which had gone very badly. Though that was hardly my fault.

"How angry is the queen?" Olyvar asked. He could almost feel himself slipping into his murderous stare as he pushed back the nerves threatening to make his voice shake.

"A little less angry," Aegor sighed, running a hand through his silken silver hair. "Dany expected you to blast Greyjoy from the skies, not leave him free to wreak havoc in the future."

"Sorry to disappoint." Olyvar let a touch of anger seep into his voice. "The firebreaks mattered more than the pursuit of the enemy. When Viserion was rested enough to fly we searched for days, and found no sign of the pirate fleet. Lady Irri assured me that the manticore venom would make quick work of both Greyjoy and dragon, and that returning to Daenerys mattered more than continuing a fruitless search."

Aegor winced. "She told Dany the same, but... uhm. Irri also pointed out that even if Greyjoy lived, he'd be more intent on slaying you than on risking another encounter with her archers. I wasn't so sure, but Moqorro said his flames agree. Euron Greyjoy will sail west, not east, he said. That mollified Dany a bit."

"How comforting for her," Olyvar said through numb lips, praying he could hide the wave of fear washing over him.

Last night he had dreamt he was in Volantis again, but this time Rhaegal was spitting gouts of swirling green fire at the Water Gardens, not the Red Temple. When he tried to make a firebreak, Viserion's flames consumed first his mother, then Oberyn and Ellaria, then his sisters and cousins one by one, and last of all, Deziel and Sansa, who were still reaching out their hands to him when the flesh sloughed off their bones.

It was not the first time he'd dreamt that nightmare, only the first since returning to Meereen. Nym had tried to comfort him, in her way, but even so, his composure had hung by a fraying thread. Olyvar had raced up the many levels of the Great Pyramids, he had slammed open the door to their chambers, he had waited, panting, as Sansa shooed away her guests—

And the instant they were alone, the thread had snapped. I've got you, she had said, tenderness in her voice and warmth in her eyes, and he had crumpled to pieces in her arms.

Nym was in pieces too, but her humor leaned more towards wrath than sorrow. Little though she liked the Vhassars, she had liked their deaths even less. Rhaegal's flames had consumed their palace, among many others. The former Triarch Nyessos had been atop his lavish tower, screaming orders at the slaves below, when the walls turned to slagged stone and engulfed him.

Nyessara and her daughters had been less lucky. They had hidden in a wing of the palace unmarred by flame, relying on their slave soldiers and sellswords to keep them safe. Instead... Nymeria had tried to slap the widow's son, when he told her what befell her mother and half sisters. Thank the gods for Olyvar's quick reflexes. He'd caught her wrist before the blow could land, and half led, half dragged her away.

Trials and beheadings were one thing, the justice of the mob another. Nyessara had not been forced to face her sins before the gods, to suffer the calling of witnesses, to pay weregild to those whom she had wronged. No. She and most of the other slavers had been beaten, tortured, raped, and murdered by whomever found them first, just as many of their treasures were plundered by those who had no right to claim them.

"Olyvar?" Aegor's voice was impatient. "For Seven's sake, I'm working on Dany, there's no need to look at me like that."

"Apologies," Olyvar rasped, looking about for something to wet his dry lips. "My thoughts were elsewhere." He found a flagon of water, and drained it.

"Westeros, I suppose?" Aegor made a face. "Better you than me, Seven be thanked."

"Yes," Olyvar admitted. How strange it was, that the person who best understood Olyvar's many burdens was the imposter raised to carry them in his stead. "I was thinking of mobs, and how dangerous they are."

Aegor furrowed his brow, his indigo eyes thoughtful. "So?"

"So..." he paused, thinking. "Mobs are wild, unreasonable, or so my maesters taught. Fools driven by rabblerousers and petty grievances. But... the mob in Volantis... cruel as they were... I cannot find it in me to condemn them as Nym does. How can we say that we would have shown more restraint, were we in their place, when we have never felt the sting of the lash, nor the feel of a collar against our necks?"

"You sound like Aegon the Unlikely, coz." Aegor grinned. "The prince who was an egg, beloved of the smallfolk and depised by the lords. Are you planning to sojourn among them when you return? Perhaps take up carpentry, or forging plows?"

Olyvar gave him a flat look, unamused.

"I was thinking of Daenerys. Once, I was trying to explain the difference between serfs and slaves, and she could not grasp why they were different. I told her that serfs are not bought and sold at auction, nor bred like horses, that the lowliest serf and the lowliest slave live far different lives. The queen asked me if a serf's comfort depended upon the lord and his bailiffs. When I said yes, she said that a slave's comfort depends upon his master and his overseers."

"She has a point," Aegor said. "From high lords to landed knights, every fief has different laws for their smallfolk, just as every Free City has different laws for their freeborn and slaves. Haldon said it's rather arbitrary, as the laws change every time the lord does."

"What if they didn't? What if the king issued edicts that encompassed all the realm, that provided a stable foundation that all lords must abide by?" The thought had gnawed at Olyvar as he sailed across the long leagues, thinking of how to ensure Westeros never suffered as Volantis had.

"Definitely Aegon the Unlikely." Aegor glanced out the terrace window, as if hoping the rain would let up and permit him to take his usual swim. "What, did you read some tome about him before bed last night?"

"No," Olyvar snorted, somewhat offended. "Aegon the Unlikely was an well meaning idiot, who put his children's happiness ahead of the realm, and thought dragons would compensate for his refusal to play at politics with lords he disliked."

Marriage alliances were well and good, but hardly enough to knit the realm together, especially when Aegon the Fifth's children refused to play their part. The lives of thousands mattered more than the happiness of two lovers, no matter how high their birth, nor how dear they were to the king.

"At any rate, coz," Olyvar continued. "Queen Daenerys also had a point about the power wielded by the high lords. Tywin Lannister spent much of his life acting with utter impunity, heedless of the laws of the realm, because his gold and his armies rendered him a law unto himself."

"The Reynes and Tarbecks... my mother says Jaeherys the Second was appalled by Castamere, but dared not intervene, not with how precariously he sat the Iron Throne in the wake of Summerhall. The High Septon made some fuss about the murder of innocents, even considered pronouncing an anathema until such time as Ser Tywin repented of his sins and humbled himself before the Faith... and then recanted his objections as soon as the Lannisters bestowed some of their gold upon the Great Sept of Baelor."

"I had wondered, what exactly I would do with the man who thought he slew me as a babe, who had slain my sister and sought to have my mother raped." The rain had slowed to a drizzle; Aegor strode to the windows and began stripping off his garb. Olyvar began to do the same, though more slowly, taking care to drape his finery upon a chair, not just fling them haphazardly at the closest flat surface.

"But I am Aegor, not Aegon, gods be praised, Tywin the Faithless moulders in his grave, and you get the dubious pleasure of unseating his daughter and his grandson."

And of fighting the Others, most likely, Olyvar thought as he followed Aegor onto the terrace and slid into the pool's crystal waters. Lucky me.

The rest of the morning passed with swimming and quiet conversation, occasionally punctuated by the laughter of children drifting down from above. Daenerys spent most of her leisure time in the garden atop the apex of the pyramid, sitting beneath an olive tree and watching the foundlings at their play. Olyvar hoped the diversion would soothe the queen's temper; he needed all the help he could get.

The Volantenes were not entirely pleased with how Queen Daenerys' envoys had served them. The red priests were grateful enough; Dysaria's lieutenants and freedmen less so. Yes, the white dragon had helped drive away the green, but the ruin they wrought between them was such that the Volantenes did not want any dragons near their city ever again. Nor did they have any interest in bending the knee to the Empress of Dragon's Bay and becoming one of the cities which paid her tribute.

Angry as she was at Greyjoy's survival, Daenerys was much angrier that Lady Irri had taken it upon herself to have her archers purposefully target Rhaegal, the queen's wayward child, and almost speechless with fury when she learned that Lady Irri had also intended to remove Viserion and his rider from the world.

That revelation had occurred to Olyvar at some point between landing atop the Lightning Tower and collapsing in the ship's cargo hold afterwards. Then he was too exhausted to fret about it, and by the time he was rested, he was too busy trying to hunt down Greyjoy.

Kings made enemies, after all. Olyvar had known Lady Irri considered him a threat to Daenerys; he supposed it was not shocking that she'd meant to deal with him the same way she'd dealt with Greyjoy. He'd almost died a hundred times that night, what was one more? If the Dothraki were going to shoot him, they would have had done with it when he landed atop the tower to lure Rhaegal closer, not risked losing what might be their only chance. Ko Aggo had not even drawn his bow, much though he might have wanted to.

Unfortunately, Nymeria did not share his tranquil resignation. Olyvar had known she would not; it was why he had not told her. She remained thankfully oblivious for the entire voyage back from Volantis, until, by unhappy chance, some passing remark made her freeze on the gangplank from the ship to the dock.

Lady Irri had already reached the bottom, and was turning to say something when a flash of steel flew threw the air. At the precise moment the dagger stuck in Irri's shoulder, Olyvar shoved Nym off the gangplank into the filthy waters of the harbor below. That had been enough to make Aggo lower his arakh, thank the gods. He had already charged halfway up the gangplank, with murder in his eyes. Olyvar held his gaze, ignoring Nym's spluttering and swearing as she swam for the opposite end of the dock.

"A matter for Queen Daenerys, not us," Lady Irri gritted through her teeth, one hand holding the dagger's hilt. Aggo had retreated, to help see to her wound, and Olyvar had gone off to secure Nym, lest she make a second attempt. Shortly after it had begun pouring rain, hard enough to cool the hottest tempers. Almost.

"What in the seven hells were you thinking?" Olyvar snapped as Nym swung into her saddle. "This close to leaving, and you injure one of Daenerys' most trusted ladies?"

"I was aiming to kill," his sister answered, teeth bared. "She dares—"

"She dares? What about you? You swore to take me for your king, and you do not have my leave to attempt murder unprovoked. What if I hadn't shoved you when I did? A throwing knife is no use against an arakh, they're barely of use for anything except flinging at stationary targets when you want to show off! Let alone at flinging at a well loved retainer of an ally we cannot afford to offend!"

With a sullen glare, Nym kicked her horse to a gallop, heedless of the mud and pouring rain. Olyvar followed, chasing her all the way to the gates of the pyramid. There he had placed her into the waiting Ser Symon Wyl's keeping before racing up to his own chambers, pushed beyond the utmost bounds of his endurance. In his wife's arms he fell apart, and with her help he pulled himself back together, enough that Olyvar could face Daenerys in the morning and explain all that had transpired.

There had been less shouting than he expected, at least. Daenerys could not decide whose actions outraged her most, which meant the brunt of her ire was shared among Olyvar, Nymeria, and Irri, rather than taken by any one of them alone. Too, she was upset at the absence of Drogon, who had not been seen for some weeks.

"Do you think Queen Daenerys will deem my quest fulfilled?" Olyvar asked, when they were drying themselves off later, his muscles pleasantly sore from his exertions. He would never have Aegor's flat belly, but he did not think he shamed himself much by comparison. He could only hope some women preferred a man with a solid build, rather than a lean one.

"I should think so?" Aegor shrugged. "Give her a few more days; perhaps by the solstice she'll be ready to think of you more kindly. I doubt she would have been nearly so angry if not for all the trouble she's had with the Brazen Beasts, and Ser Barristan into the bargain."

"Oh?"

It was almost a relief, listening to Aegor recount the troubles of Meereen, rather than thinking of those Olyvar faced himself. Over a light repast he leant his kinsman a sympathetic ear, careful to offer advice only when it was sought, not whenever ideas popped into his head. He did not know Meereen, not as Aegor did, and attempting to muck about in the city's affairs based upon his limited knowledge was bound to end badly for all involved.

It seemed only the blink of an eye before the solstice came, with the accompanying festivities to mark the ending of the year. The morrow would mark the beginning of the year 304 AC in most of Westeros, where the years were marked by Aegon's Conquest. In Dorne they would celebrate the year 1424 CR, counted from the coming of the Rhoynar. In Meereen, they counted years from the doom of Valyria, and the new year was 406, an auspicious number, according to the red priests.

Olyvar was not sure that he agreed. Though it was not the time of her moonblood, Sansa was suffering a severe headache, one that left her weak as a kitten. Rather than bringing his wife to the queen's feast, he had left her tucked in bed with a damp cloth on her brow. Lady Toland and Gilly would take good care of her, he knew, but Olyvar would have rather tended her himself. His wife was unaccountably fond of him singing her Rhoynish lullabies when she was ill, and had cozened several out of him before he was forced to depart, leaving Robett Glover to guard their chamber.

Queen Daenerys greeted him politely, if coolly. The rest of the Dornish received warmer greetings, especially Brienne and Edric. He would need to ask Deziel more about that, among other things. There had not been nearly enough time to catch up on all that he missed whilst he was away. At least Ser Gulian was off to Braavos. Now that was done, Olyvar was slowly trudging through the latest correspondence from the Seven Kingdoms.

"I feel like I've barely seen you," Olyvar lamented as they strolled about the garden atop the pyramid, enjoying the sight of dusk across the city. Though wine had flowed like water during the feast, he had drunk little. His belly was full with better fare, the taste of rice and chopped herbs with fish lingering on his tongue.

"I knew you would be busy," Deziel shrugged, snagging two cups of wine from a passing Unsullied. The queen did not permit common servants about her person, not since Azzar. Best not to think about that; he should enjoy the evening as his wife implored.

Olyvar accepted the cup of wine, toasting his friend before taking a sip. "I've heard you've been busy too. A whole garden on your terrace, Sansa said, the loveliest she's ever seen."

Deziel's shoulders drooped. "It was, before storm flies attacked my gladiolus. I've been plucking them off one by one, but the leaves are still rotting. I had hoped to make a gift of them..."

He stared into the distance, at the small cluster of children gathered beneath the olive tree, gorging themselves on fried pastries under the watchful eye of a slightly tipsy Queen Daenerys and a sober Brienne of Tarth.

Olyvar slung a sympathetic arm over his friend's shoulder. "You know," he teased. "I think Queen Daenerys would have rejected your suit anyway. Aegor won't shut up about how well they've been doing of late. It's rather sweet."

Though he could have lived without some of Aegor's raptures about how much better lovemaking was when a man and wife at last overcame the walls that stood between them, when they joined together not only their bodies but their souls. Alas, aspiring kings could not dunk prince consorts into the terrace pool, no matter how tempting or deserved it might be.

Deziel snorted. "Right, yes. You've caught me, I admit it. It was the perfect plan. A rare gladiolus, blue as the summer sky, was surely the way into her heart. I'll have to try again; not like there's much else to do until fourth moon."

"Coz!" Aegor descended upon them, his cheeks flushed with wine. "There you are! Oh, and you, Ser Deziel, well met."

Without so much as a by-your-leave he jammed himself between them, slinging an arm over each of their shoulders. "I've got a gift for you, coz. A good one, really good. Wait, where did I put it?"

Aegor rummaged in his pockets, oblivious to the contortions Deziel's face was making as he tried not to laugh. "Found it!"

"It" proved to be a book, small enough to fit in the palm of one's hand. Gifts were traditional upon the new year, but Olyvar had not expected to receive one from his cousin, let alone one delivered with such... enthusiasm. Aegor watched intently as Olyvar opened the book, turned beet-red, and closed it so fast he heard a quiet thump.

"Don't tell Dany," Aegor giggled, smiling a fond smile. "She thinks I just know what I'm doing— Are you well, ser?"

Dez was wheezing rather alarmingly. "Quite well," he gasped. "Please, do go on."

Aegor brightened at the encouragement. "Right! So, the first thing to know is that while men are more akin to dogs, women are akin to— to the other ones." He frowned. "You know. With the teeth and the purring."

"Cats?" Deziel prompted, his shoulders shaking.

"Cats!" Aegor beamed. "You see, you've got to pet them—"

Mercifully, it was at that moment that the musicians began to play a very loud, very cheerful tune. Whirling dancers formed a ring about the largest bonfire, drawing onlookers from amongst the crowd, including Aegor, who promptly flung an arm around a bemused Ko Jhogo, drawing looks from the queen's councillors and Dornish alike.

Not the Kingslayer, though. He lurked at the edge of the garden, a ghost garbed in wildfire green to match his eyes and gold to match his thinning curls, eyed by both the Unsullied and by Ser Barristan Selmy. Why on earth had the queen seen fit to permit him to attend? Now that Olyvar thought of it, he needed to ask Daenerys about what she wished to do with Jaime Lannister.

When Aegor convinced her to let the Kingslayer live, it was so they might use him to prove Tommen's bastardy. Olyvar supposed he should do the same, though he misliked it. There were many crimes for which the Kingslayer should be tried and executed; at the very least, he would have liked to break his nose again. Sansa avoided Ser Jaime like the plague, and no wonder, though he could not countenance why Lady Brienne tolerated the man as a sparring partner. She certainly never spoke of him.

Indeed, when Lady Brienne noticed the way the Kingslayer was staring at her, she looked desperately uncomfortable, and promptly left. Olyvar would have gone after her, to see that she was well, but Edric and Deziel cornered him by the fountain, eager to catch him up on all he had missed.

Sansa had briefly told him of the incident at the queen's nursery which resulted in Edric becoming Ser Edric, confiding her terror when the sound of steel made her recall the slaughter of her father's men. She had not mentioned that she required only a few short minutes to regain her composure before taking hold of the situation.

Of course she had. When Olyvar strode into their chamber splattered with Azzar's blood, she had panicked, but panicked in a manner that was utterly sensible. She woke Gilly, began packing her most costly jewels, all the while talking to herself about the best way for the Dornish to flee the pyramid before the queen's Unsullied had time to catch them. When he took her in his arms, she had calmed almost immediately, listened to his explanations, and only then had she sobbed all over him.

"I wonder why," Deziel said flatly, having apparently missed the entire point Olyvar was trying to make. "Hmm. Edric, any thoughts?"

Olyvar raised a hand before Edric could speak. "No. Not this again."

For days before Olyvar departed for Volantis, almost every Dornishman had come to him to entreat him to consummate his marriage before he left. His wife was of age, his wife was surely as fertile as her lady mother, surely he should do his best to plant an heir before he sailed off to risk his life—

"Swive all this talk of duty, duty says you should be swiving your wife," was how Ser Symon Wyl had crassly put it.

"My marriage bed is not up for discussion," Olyvar told them, just as he'd told Ser Symon. "Must I make it an order from your king?"

Deziel furrowed his brow. "I wasn't going to talk about your marriage bed, actually. Nor will anyone else. A jest of mine went amiss shortly before you returned; for a moment I thought Princess Sansa seemed like to turn into a wolf and bite me." He gave Olyvar a knowing glance. "After that I told everyone else to stop making remarks on the topic."

"Oh. My apologies, ser."

"I was going to say that duties are easier to bear when one has a loving wife to share them. The septons and the maesters agree that love is a wondrous thing for the spirit; why should you not draw strength from it?"

"Draw strength from what?" Robett Glover seemed to appear from out of nowhere. Firelight shone off the silver mailed fist on his scarlet tunic, and off the grey streaks in his brown hair. "Tarth relieved me, ser," he grunted, seeing the look of concern on Olyvar's face. "The princess remains well guarded."

"We were talking of love and duty," Edric piped up helpfully. His pale cheeks were pink with wine; he sounded more like a squire of twelve than a knight of almost seventeen. "Like how my love for Dorne helps me train to better defend her."

"Indeed." There was a long pause. "Both love and duty are matters of respect, above all else," Glover finally said. "Respect for one's liege, for one's kin, for one's station." And with that, he wandered off again, leaving them to sit by the fountain in awkward silence.

You seem to treat Princess Sansa with respect, he recalled Glover saying, a few days before her sixteenth nameday. You will continue to do so, or you will answer to myself and to the King in the North.

What, precisely, that was supposed to mean Olyvar could not figure out, and dared not ask, not when Robett still eyed him skeptically at odd moments. It would hardly improve matters if he explained to Robett that he refused to lay a hand on his wife because he feared ensaring her as Rhaegar once ensnared Lyanna. The Tower of Joy was far from the North, but Meereen was even farther. He could not live with himself if he took something that was not freely given.

Robb Stark's letters were no help either. Olyvar kept a tactful silence regarding the marriage, save that it remained unconsummated. To his annoyance, the King in the North followed suit. King Robb did not outright demand the annullment of his sister's marriage, nor encourage that it remain, so much as he wrote around the fact of its existence. Did he think a dragon wiped out the stain of bastardy? Or had Robett told him the secret which so many had guarded for so long?

Olyvar had asked Glover not to reveal his true lineage, not yet. But the man would not swear an oath to that effect, saying only that Olyvar must trust him, as the King in the North trusted him with Princess Sansa's continued safety. No such sentiments were in Robb Stark's letters; his most recent had spoken more of Daenerys than of Sansa. To Olyvar's alarm, Stark hinted quite heavily that he should slay Daenerys, before her madness endangered Westeros.

What about endangering your sister? Olyvar had wanted to shout. Daenerys had knights, Unsullied, and armies of freedmen, for Seven's sake; to move against her whilst dwelling in her pyramid would be suicidal. How could King Robb have misread their letters so badly? Such extreme actions were not even necessary, not with Daenerys resigned to remaining in Essos where she belonged. Granted, things might be different if she had claimed Drogon, but somehow he doubted it.

A thin whistle pierced the air, followed by a crackle and a flash of light.

"Lovely," Deziel breathed.

Fireflowers burst across the sky, blooms of flame that vanished almost as soon as they appeared. From Yi Ti, if he recalled aright. Unlike the sickly green wildfire of the pyromancers, the fireflowers shone with every shade of the rainbow. The children clustered about the queen clapped and gasped, making oohs and aahs of delight at each new bloom. Olyvar manfully resisted the urge to go play with them, aware that it would do neither himself nor anyone else any good.

The wine had certainly done Aegor no good. He was pale and queasy when he visited Olyvar's solar the next morning, keen on apologizing for his behavior.

"I confused a flagon of strongwine with a flagon of sour red," he admitted, one hand cradling his head. "I had meant to give you the gift today, quietly, as a— a gesture of goodwill. Not to make an ass of myself and embarrass the both of us. I can take it back, if you want."

"Returning a gift is ill luck, coz," Olyvar replied, hoping Sansa wasn't listening from her seat on the terrace. "But I'm not going to read it." Yet, anyway.

"Fine," Aegor grimaced. "Serves me right. Though you should read it, unless you'd rather follow the way of the Unsullied and adopt a foundling for an heir."

The next fortnight crept by slowly, each day's routine the same, a welcome respite of mundanity and monotony. At the Hour of the Father Olyvar prayed in the sept, then spent the rest of his morning poring over the letters from Westeros and the useful notes which Sansa had compiled when she read them. There were even tidily labeled charts, sorted by subject and by house, with sigils sketched atop the pages in his wife's careful hand.

Whilst he occupied himself with reading the notes, adding his own thoughts in the margins, Sansa occupied herself with filling fresh pages. At some point whilst he was away, she had taken it upon herself to begin collecting songs and stories, as skalds did. Thus far she had jotted down Gilly's northron tales, and those she knew herself, before moving on those from Dorne.

When her hands grew stiff from writing, Sansa would take a turn about the solar, or walk on the terrace, if the day was clear. Regardless of the weather, she would sing to herself under her breath as she walked, a pleasant hum at the edge of his hearing as Olyvar bent over his own work.

Their lunches were spent with a different member of the retinue each day. Whilst Olyvar sought their counsel on matters of state, Sansa asked after their various pursuits; when argument grew too fierce over some point, Sansa smoothed things over; when she wearied of company who remained too long, Olyvar made tactful dismissals, with the excuse that he must return to his letters.

When Lady Nymella Toland lunched with them, she brought her great-niece with her. Now three, Sylva was permitted to sit at table, though she did not remain there long. Her chubby fists were not very adept at feeding herself without creating a mess, so Gilly scooped her up and fed her on the terrace with her son. A year older, Samrik was quite capable of feeding himself, and kept trying to show his playmate how to do it.

When the meal was through, Sansa asked for Lady Nymella's thoughts on a composition. Instead, she found herself playing and singing for an adoring pair of toddlers, who ran in from the terrace almost as soon as her fingers touched the strings of her high harp. For a moment his eyes betrayed him, turning the children's dark brown hair to auburn and silver...

Afternoons were for letters and notes and planning, followed by tending Viserion, but when Lady Toland left, Olyvar found himself unable to concentrate. Somehow a conversation that began about their childhoods shifted into one about the proper upbringing of children. Though they had been raised thousands of leagues apart, their thoughts aligned on most matters.

"I wonder, sometimes, what Joffrey might have been," Sansa confided, her eyes sad. "When I was a girl, I thought he was the cruelest boy to ever live, but he was still a boy. Where did he learn cruelty, if not from his mother, or from his fathers both feigned and true?" She touched the locket that hung beneath her gown. "Lord Eddard taught us lessons Joffrey never learned."

Olyvar restrained the urge to ask what lesson Sansa had learned when Lord Eddard slew her direwolf. One daughter's wolf had been allowed to run free; could he not have done something to save the other? It utterly bewildered him that Lord Eddard could be so unfailingly honest, yet fail to warn his daughters of the danger in King's Landing, of the perilous game they played.

The last time he had questioned Lord Eddard's sense had let to a bit of an argument. Olyvar had been poring over all the reports he had of the Night's Watch and the Others when he made the mistake of asking why anyone in his right mind would let his beloved son join the Night's Watch.

After all, Ned Stark had raised his son at Winterfell, in defiance of all custom. Even in Dorne, bastards were fostered with trusted friends, not raised in the lord's keep alongside his trueborn children. That was why Prince Oberyn had never wed; a wife might tolerate a paramour, but not a brood of bastards underfoot who might someday usurp her own children's place.

"A lesser lord would have found himself at war with his wife's family over such an insult," Olyvar huffed. "Why would Lord Eddard risk so much to raise Jon Snow himself, only to let him waste away amongst rapers and murderers?"

"Sins are wiped away when a man joins the Night's Watch," Sansa had replied, flaring. Passion turned her cheeks to roses, her eyes bright. "Uncle Benjen called them the black knights of the Wall; he took my half brother there himself to swear their holy vows. It was a hideous, crookbacked black brother who smuggled Arya out of King's Landing, not some dashing knight in a white cloak."

His breath caught in his throat. "You are the northwoman, not I," Olyvar murmured. "I yield the point."

Sansa frowned at him, suspicion lingering in her eyes. "So easily?"

Olyvar shrugged, his heartbeat thudding in his ears as he trembled upon the edge of a precipice. "You are a part of my councils. I respect your judgment; why should I not heed your thoughts?"

The rest he left unsaid.

As first moon drew to a close, Olyvar found himself regretting the steady pace at which he'd worked. All the old correspondence had been thoroughly reviewed, and initial plans drawn up for all the arrangements which must be made before they finally departed Meereen. There was little else to be done; he could hardly begin buying grain until he knew how much gold he had to spend. The Summer Islander fleet was not due to return until fourth moon, and with the narrow sea so rough, Ser Gulian Qorgyle would not return from Braavos for months.

Sansa had her stories, Deziel his garden, Nym her sullen sulks, Lady Toland her harp and her great-niece, but Olyvar found himself at his wit's end. The reports of the Seven Kingdoms from the sailors on the docks did not help; they were so confused and contradictory as to be useless, even compared to reports nine moons out of date.

Lacking anything else to occupy his time, Olyvar set himself to the problem of Queen Daenerys. Something must be done to secure her friendship in the wake of what had happened with Volantis. As the weeks went on, she'd leaned toward favoring Lady Irri's account of events, praising the Dothraki woman's loyalty and bravery.

Oh, Daenerys acknowledged the role Olyvar had played in luring Greyjoy to the archers, but that could not soothe her hurt over the loss of her child Rhaegal. Whether or not he survived his wound, the jade dragon was lost to her forever. Unwilling to blame Lady Irri, the Mother of Dragons instead blamed Olyvar, who meant to steal away her second child and never return.

"I think the loss would not have cut as deep, if not for Drogon," Aegor confided during one of their swims. After weeks of frequent sightings toward the end of the old year, the dragon had suddenly vanished shortly before Olyvar's return, and had not been seen for nearly two moons. "Dany asked me how she could be the Mother of Dragons, when no dragons remain to her?"

That gave Olyvar an idea. A terrible idea, granted, but one that just might work. He voiced it first to Aegor, then to Daenerys. Only after receiving the queen's wholehearted support did he bring it to his wife and bannermen.

As expected, every single one of them hated it, despite the queen's promises of support should he succeed. Perros Blackmont spent several days thinking up alternatives, each worse than the last, and was crestfallen when Olyvar rejected them. Glover demanded to know whether he had taken leave of his senses; Deziel stared at him for a good ten minutes, then swore so vehemently he accidentally cut an entire branch off the pomegranate tree he was pruning.

Every single one of them hated it, except Sansa.

"This will work," she said to herself, eyeing Viserion nervously. They stood in the dragon yard, with Daenerys, Aegor, and the rest of the Dornish looking on from a safe distance. "I frightened Drogon away, after all. All we have to do is bring him back, and then we can go home."

"And then we can go home," he agreed, watching the sunlight dance upon her auburn hair. It was braided into a coronet around her head, to shield it from the wind. "Ready?"

Sansa drew a deep breath. "Ready."

The dragon's saddle was akin to one used for jousting, with a high pommel, a high back, and a high cantle in between Olyvar's seat and the pillion where Sansa would ride. Gowns were hardly compatible with dragonriding, but it was odd, to see her in tunic and breeches over chainmail. Sansa shifted uncomfortably as he helped her secure the saddle chains that would bind her during flight. Once satisfied as to his wife's safety, he saw to his own, the warmth of the dragon settling over him like a blanket.

Olyvar had just finished checking his own chains when Viserion let out a cry. The great wings spread, and in a crack of thunder they were aloft, the world falling away, an ear-piercing scream in his ears. For a moment he was worried, until the sound turned to giddy laughter, then gasps of awe at the sight of the city below.

North, south, or east, Olyvar prayed as he waited for Viserion to choose their path. Anything but west, please.

Drawn by the wisps of magic that still bound him to his black brother, the white dragon turned west.

Olyvar could only hope they would not follow a trail of charred corpses. A dragon that ate children did not deserve to live. Sansa hoped that if Daenerys claimed the dragon, she might command him to eat only sheep. It was an opinion Olyvar did not share. Only the presence of Lady Irri and her archers had convinced him he was right to risk the black dragon's return to Meereen. If the queen could not stop the dragon from devouring children, her Dothraki archers certainly would.

Days spent on dragonback were far different than those spent in the pyramid of Meereen. A third of each day was spent soaring through the skies. Viserion bore their weight easily, and eastern winds sped their flight. Soon after sunset, the dragon would descend upon some lonely spot beside a lake or river. Whilst Sansa set up their canvas tent and gathered firewood, Olyvar hunted or fished for fresh meat, then cooked whatever he had caught over their fire. Before midnight they retired to bed, sleeping with the dragon's saddlebags between them; before dawn, they rose, broke camp, and returned to the air.

On days when the autumn rains grew too fierce, they did not break camp. Instead, they remained in the same spot for a day or two, huddling by the fire or holing up inside the tent, talking of everything and nothing. Mostly they talked of Winterfell and the Water Gardens, though sometimes Sansa talked of the hollow hill, and Olyvar of his days as a squire.

"That was when I learned how to make these," he told her one day, handing her a warm flatbread.

Olyvar had only barely kept the fire going long enough to cook them, what with the rain pouring down in sheets outside their tent. They were lucky to have bread; the dragon's saddlebags could not carry much. When the small supply of flour, honey, and oil ran out, they would be forced to rely on meat and fish alone. They brought little else with them. They each had only a few sets of clothes, soap and tooth powder, thin cashmere blankets, their tent, some coin, and a few other things, like the dried apple rings hidden away for the next time his wife got her moonblood.

"It's wonderful," Sansa said, sighing as she took a bite. "Much better than when we were walking through the Riverlands. We scavenged what we could, and Arya could catch rabbits, but none of us knew how to cook them. Except Meri, we'd have starved, if not for her. Still better than when I was in my wolfskin, though." She shuddered. "I never could get used to eating meat raw and bloody."

Olyvar could still not quite get used to Sansa saying such things. That the same girl who was so kindhearted that she wept for Joffrey was also capable of regularly opening her veins to spill her blood on the roots of weirwood trees was... unsettling. Bands of faded silver scars still marked her forearms, almost invisible, unless one knew they were there. What sort of gods asked for such grisly tribute?

Then again, those same gods had blessed her with her wolfskin, had blessed her siblings with their direwolves. In ancient days the Rhoynar had offered up men and women to Mother Rhoyne; the ancient Andals had carved seven-pointed stars into the bodies of unbelievers before they slew them. Sansa had only made offerings with the meat of animals and her own blood, freely given.

The next day dawned without a cloud in the sky, and their journey resumed. They flew over old Valyrian roads of fused black stone, they flew over mountains painted in stripes of rust and rose, gold and grey, jade and jet, they flew over foothills and forests.

As they drew closer to Volantis, Viserion began acting very strangely. One night he dropped a pile of bones on Olyvar, another night he shoved Sansa into a pond, and he kept blowing smoke and flames for no reason, though he was careful not to set anything ablaze. Even his presence felt different, or so Sansa said. Perhaps it was the regrowth of his tail that was bothering him? Viserion was not sure; his tail itched, but otherwise bothered him little. Nor could they think of anything else amiss; his appetite was fine, his moods otherwise placid.

They had been flying for just over a moon's turn when they finally reached Volantis. Thankfully, Viserion was more than willing to give the city a wide berth. Olyvar did not doubt there were archers everywhere, watching in case the jade dragon should return to plague them once more. Instead, Viserion followed the Rhoyne northward, toward a pair of cities that sat astride the river. His dark brother was near, the dragon told them, and they would find him soon.

The ruins of Sar Mell rose from the morning mist like a maiden from her bath. The walls of her palaces were wrought of pale sandstone, covered in delicate carvings of flowers in lavish geometric patterns. Her abandoned courtyards were overgrown with wild blooms; a few of her pools and fountains still ran with clear water; the Rhoynar had built their cities for strength and for beauty.

Volon Therys was less lovely. Abandoned a few short years ago after being sacked by a Dothraki khal, the old Valyrian city jutted proudly from the western bank of the river, as though determined to master it. Its edifices were of ghostly white marble, polished to an unnatural sheen. Row after row of cramped slave apartments ran throughout the city, their walls of unadorned cold caement. Even the palaces of the mighty boasted few carvings, and those upon the trim of the pillars and upon the friezes.

When Viserion landed upon the eastern bank of the Rhoyne, neither of them objected. Sansa was halfway through undoing her saddle chains when Viserion reared up, shrieking.

Everything happened at once. Drogon rose from the ruins of Volon Therys, his great black wings torn, a thousand useless arrows embedded in his flanks and chest. The arms about Olyvar's waist went limp as Sansa slumped against him, attempting to speak to the dragon as she spoke to his brother. Drogon roared, Viserion shrieked, and at the same moment Viserion took to the skies, the saddle chains gave way.

With frantic fingers Olyvar undid his own chains, the dragons forgotten, his eyes fixed upon the blue river, upon the spot where the body had fallen with a splash of white. Viserion was still rising slowly above the river, so high that Olyvar really should not dive—

Mother Rhoyne, help me!

Olyvar dove.

He slammed into the river like a stone into a wall. He coughed out a lungful of air, and choked in river water, his legs kicking desperately toward the gleam of golden fire overhead, his arms pulling—and then suddenly his feet stood upon something hard, and he was rising, rising, until his head broke the water and into the open air, until he drew a shuddering breath and looked down—

He stood upon the back of a great horned turtle, one even larger than the dragons grappling over their heads. The turtle looked at him with eyes the same mossy green as its shell. One flipper waved gently in the water; Sansa clung to the other, gasping for air, bloody tears streaming down her face and blood streaming from her nose.

"Old Man of the River." Olyvar bowed his head, his chest heaving. "Thank you."

The turtle's eyes glinted; it raised its head and bellowed, the sound thrumming through the air. The dragons screeched as one, their bodies locked together, but they left them in peace as the turtle swam to the eastern bank of the river. No sooner had they limped ashore then the turtle dove beneath the waves with a mighty splash.

It was almost dusk when Viserion returned to them at Sar Mell, Drogon having vanished into the clouds above Volon Therys. Too weary to hunt, and unable to set up camp with their saddlebags, they had sunk down upon the stones of one of the less overgrown courtyards. With a disapproving snort Viserion coiled his length around them, tucking them under his wings as though they were wayward hatchlings.

Both his dragon and his wife fell asleep almost instantly, but Olyvar could not. It was his folly, his arrogance that had led to this. No gold nor grain nor army ever raised was worth losing so much in exchange. With or without Drogon, tomorrow they would return to Meereen, and from there return home. And gods help Daenerys if she stands in our way.


Last year for Valentine's Day, we got Jaime stabbing Tywin through the heart. This year, we get lots of politics and such, with a side of the Olyvar-Sansa anxiety slowburn from hell, lol.

All POVs from here on out are the last ones (in Part IV) for each character

Chapters Remaining

January-August (?) 304 AC

140: Dany VI

141: Edythe III

142: Cersei V

143: Olyvar VI

144: Jaime III

August-December 304 AC

145: Arya VII

146: Sansa VI

147: Bran V

148: Jon VII

Wibbly wobbly timey wimey AC

149: Epilogue (Theon)

Olyvar's (as yet unnamed) spear and sword by ohnoitsmyra

NOTES

1) Most lower class Romans lived in apartment complexes called insulae, which is what the slave housing of Volantis is based on.

2) Just as fortnight means every fourteen nights, I could have sworn sennight is used in canon to mean a span of seven nights, but apparently not. I've used it here before; now I'm adding senmorn to refer to the Faith's equivalent of Sundays, with the equivalent holy services.

3) The celebration of New Year's Eve in Meereen is vaguely based on Nowruz, the Persian new year, although Nowruz is celebrated on the spring equinox.

4) Gladiolus is a type of iris, known for symbolizing strength. They're also called sword lilies, a fact which is so perfect I cannot believe it.

5) Swive is a medieval term for having sex. Think "fuck" but less intense.

6) Let's talk dragon speeds!

GRRM deliberately leaves himself plenty of wiggle room, but I needed some guidelines or I was gonna lose my mind figuring out distance/timing issues. In canon, we know Visenya managed to fly nonstop from Dragonstone to Pentos to fetch Maegor, and that Rhaenyra and Daemon used to race their dragons from the Red Keep to Dragonstone and back. Rather than do my own calculations, I scanned a lot of old message boards on Reddit and the wiki, and after looking at other people debate the various factors, settled on a range of up to ~150mph max sprint, and a low of 25mph.

For a long distance journey, stopping each evening to preserve the dragon's strength and let the rider rest, I used around 40mph as my guidance point, keeping in mind that headwinds versus tail winds could substantially affect a dragon's speed.

7) I based the Painted Mountains of Essos upon Zhangye National Geopark in northern China.

8) Rhoynar architecture is based on Islamic architecture, Valyrian is based on Roman. Yes, caement is the name I made up for Roman concrete/cement.

9) Yes, you can cry blood, a condition known as haemolacria.