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Year 300 AC
Outskirts of Yunkai'i, Essos
The Yunkai'i walls rose before them like yellowed teeth against the dawn sky, and Daenerys glowered at the Harpy's likeness with loathing.
Below, her army spread across the plain like a dark tide. Eight thousand Unsullied in perfect formation, their speartips catching the first light. The Second Sons on the flanks, their sellsword swagger evident even from this height. And her freedmen—former slaves who'd taken up whatever weapons they could find, their fury worth more than their skill.
Movement at the gates. A single rider emerging under a peace banner.
No. The recognition hit her like a physical blow. That easy grace in the saddle, the way he held his shoulders—she'd watched him ride out from Meereen's gates as a hostage to ensure the peace. Now here he was, riding out from Yunkai.
Drogon sensed her tension, a low rumble building in his throat as they descended. The dragon's claws gouged deep furrows in the earth as they landed, sending her commanders scrambling back. Only Grey Worm held his ground, though she caught the slight widening of his eyes.
Daario Naharis dismounted with theatrical flair, that insufferable smile playing at his lips. His blue beard was freshly dyed, his golden tooth glinting as he approached. Everything about him screamed performance, from the exaggerated bow to the way his hand rested on his arakh's hilt.
"My radiant queen." His voice carried that same honeyed tone that had once made her pulse quicken. Now it curdled in her ears. "The Wise Masters send their regards."
"Do they?" The words came out colder than she'd intended. Drogon's tail lashed behind her, scattering dust. "And why would they send you, Daario? You're meant to be their hostage."
His smile never wavered, but something flickered in his eyes—calculation, perhaps. Or amusement at her naivety. "The Wise Masters are reasonable men, Your Grace. They've treated me as an honored guest, not a prisoner. They wish to discuss terms."
Honored guest. The phrase lodged in her throat like a bone. She'd sent him to ensure the peace, to guarantee safe passage for her people fleeing slavery. And here he stood, perfumed and preening, speaking for her enemies.
"Terms?" She dismounted from Drogon with deliberate slowness, feeling the dragon's heat at her back. "What terms could slave masters possibly offer the Breaker of Chains?"
"Peaceful ones." He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the oils in his beard, see the careful artifice in his expression. "They ask only for a parley. You and your advisors, under their protection within the city. They've prepared a feast in your honor."
The lie was so transparent she almost laughed. Did he think her a fool? Did they all think her so desperate for peace that she'd walk into such an obvious trap? Her freedmen would be slaughtered the moment she entered those gates, her dragons left riderless.
She studied his face, searching for some sign of the man who'd once sworn to follow her to the ends of the earth. But that man had never existed, had he? Just another performance, another role for the sellsword who changed sides as easily as changing clothes.
"When did you decide it?"
The question hung between them like a blade. His smile finally faltered, and for a moment she saw something real beneath the mask—surprise that she'd seen through him so quickly.
Then the smile returned, sharper now, edged with something like respect. "You know exactly when."
Of course she did. The signs had been there if she'd chosen to see them. His growing frustration with her rule in Meereen. The way he'd looked at her after she'd chained Rhaegal and Viserion. The careful distance he'd maintained after her marriage to Hizdahr.
"You don't have to worry about Hizdahr." The words tasted bitter as burnt meat. "I know he was the one who poisoned me."
Daario's eyebrows rose slightly—genuine surprise this time. "Clever girl. Though it took you long enough to work it out."
Clever girl. As if she were a child who'd finally solved a simple riddle. As if betrayal were a game and she'd merely been slow to learn the rules.
Behind her, Drogon's breathing quickened, matching her own. The dragon felt her rage, her hurt, the cold clarity settling over her like armor. No more. No more betrayals. No more mercy for those who thought her weak.
She closed her eyes, feeling the word rise from somewhere deeper than thought. The Valyrian came as naturally as breathing, as inevitable as the sunrise.
"Dracarys."
The world exploded into flame. She didn't open her eyes, didn't watch as dragonfire engulfed the man who'd shared her bed, who'd whispered promises in the dark. The roar of it filled her ears, the heat washing over her face like a lover's caress. When the flames died, only ash remained, scattered by the morning wind.
She mounted Drogon in one fluid motion, the dragon already coiling for flight. Below, the Yunkai'i guards on the walls scrambled like ants, their shouts thin and meaningless. They'd expected her to walk into their trap. They'd expected the naive girl who believed in peace and compromise.
They'd forgotten what she was.
"Dracarys," she whispered again, and this time Drogon's flames struck the ancient walls themselves. The yellow bricks exploded under the heat, mortar turning to powder, stones cracking like eggs. Centuries of construction undone in moments.
Through the breach poured her army. The Unsullied advanced in perfect lockstep, their spears finding flesh with mechanical precision. The freedmen followed, screaming their fury, their chains now weapons in their hands. The Second Sons wheeled around the flanks, cutting down any who tried to flee.
From dragonback, she watched her justice unfold. The Wise Masters would learn what the Dothraki had learned, what all who stood against her would learn. She was not the girl who'd walked into the fire in Vaes Dothrak. She was what emerged from it.
Fire and blood. The Targaryen words had never felt more true.
Drogon roared, and she let her voice join his, a sound that shook the very stones of Yunkai. Below, the city burned, and she felt nothing but satisfaction.
I am the dragon, she thought, watching the smoke rise to meet the dawn. And dragons plant no trees.
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Kingslanding, The Crownlands
The Sept of Baelor reeked of unwashed bodies and righteous fury. Mace Tyrell sat rigid on the hard wooden bench, his bulk compressed between lesser lords who'd come to gawk at his daughter's humiliation. Sweat pooled beneath his doublet despite the morning chill, and his jaw ached from clenching it these past three hours.
The High Sparrow droned on from his crystal throne, that mockery of the Faith's true seat. The old man's bare feet dangled like a child's, never quite touching the floor. Barefoot and filthy, Mace thought, yet he presumes to judge my daughter.
His knuckles whitened around the pommel of his ceremonial sword. Three days since poor Alla had died, her body wracked with fever that no maester could cure. Three days since Leo had gone mad with grief and led twenty good men against the Faith Militant. The blood still stained the Sept's steps, no matter how hard the septons scrubbed.
Now his men attacked sparrows in every alley, and the crystal-crowned zealots retaliated in kind. The city had become a battlefield, and here sat the architect of it all, speaking of sins and atonement while good men died in the streets.
"—and thus we find the accused guilty of the sin of adultery."
The words cut through Mace's brooding like a blade through silk. His head snapped up, disbelief warring with rage. Margaery stood before the tribunal, her face pale but composed, hands clasped before her. His little rose, his clever girl who'd been queen twice over, condemned by this unwashed fanatic.
"The Queen shall atone for her sins through penance," the High Sparrow continued, his reedy voice carrying through the sept. "She shall walk naked before the city, that all might witness her shame and the Mother's mercy—"
The sept erupted. Mace surged to his feet with a roar that came from his very bones, echoed by a hundred Tyrell men. Steel rang as swords cleared sheaths. A septon went down beneath Ser Tallad's blade, blood spraying across marble floors. The Faith Militant rushed forward with cudgels and crude axes, and suddenly the holy place became a slaughterhouse.
"To me!" Mace bellowed, bulling through the crowd toward his daughter. "Tyrells to me!"
A sparrow swung a mace at his head. Mace caught it on his sword, the impact jarring his arm to the shoulder. He headbutted the man, feeling nose cartilage crunch, then drove his blade through the zealot's belly. No time for mercy. No time for anything but reaching Margaery.
Ser Vortimer and Ser Bayard flanked him, cutting a path through the melee. Bodies pressed from every side—screaming, fighting, dying. The copper stench of blood mixed with incense until Mace wanted to retch. A woman in septa's robes clawed at his face; he shoved her aside and pressed on.
"Father!" Margaery's voice, high and frightened. She stood by the altar, two knights defending her from a pack of sparrows. One knight fell with an axe in his skull. Mace roared and charged, his bulk scattering the zealots like ninepins.
Then the world exploded in green.
The sept's great doors blew inward with a sound like the world ending. Emerald flames roared through the entrance, hungry and unnatural. Wildfire. The screams changed pitch, from rage to terror. Bodies became torches, running and flailing until they collapsed into burning heaps.
Cersei. The realization hit him like a physical blow. That mad bitch means to burn us all.
Another explosion, this time from the side entrance. Then another. The sept had become a trap, and they were the rats.
"The crypts!" someone screamed. "There's a way through the crypts!"
The crowd surged toward the altar, trampling the fallen. Mace grabbed Margaery's wrist and dragged her along, using his weight to force a path. The heat grew unbearable. His doublet smoldered; his lungs burned with each breath. A man on fire stumbled into them, and Mace shoved him away, trying not to hear the screams.
Behind the altar, a narrow door led to the sept's lower levels. Too narrow for the crowd trying to force through. People crushed against each other, clawing and fighting. The wildfire crept closer, its heat blistering.
Mace spotted another passage, half-hidden behind a tapestry. He ripped the cloth down and found a servant's stair, barely wide enough for one person. The green flames reflected in Margaery's wide eyes as he pushed her toward it.
"Go!"
"Not without you!"
"There's no room for us both!" The words tore from his throat. He could feel the wildfire's heat on his back now, see its glow painting the walls. "Run, my rose. Run and don't look back."
"Father, please—"
He grabbed her shoulders, looked into those clever eyes one last time. "I loved you from the moment I first held you. Tiny and perfect and mine." His voice broke. "I'll love you in the next life too."
"Father—"
"This was Cersei!" He shook her, desperate to make her understand. "Cersei did this! You survive, you hear me? You survive and you make that lioness bitch pay!"
Tears streamed down her face, but she nodded. His brave girl. His rose with thorns.
"GO!"
She turned and ran, disappearing into the darkness of the passage. Mace stood guard at the entrance, his bulk blocking any Sparrow might follow. The wildfire had reached the altar now, consuming everything in its path. The heat seared his lungs with each breath.
Growing strong, he thought, the Tyrell words a bitter jest. He'd grown fat instead, grown slow, grown too fond of wine and song. But he could still do this one thing. He could buy his daughter time.
A burning beam crashed down, showering him with embers. His doublet caught fire. The pain was extraordinary, but he held his position, sword raised against any who might threaten his daughter's escape.
The wildfire embraced him like a lover, and Mace Tyrell's last thought was of roses blooming in the gardens of Highgarden, where his children had played in better days, before the game of thrones had devoured them all.
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Sunspear, Dorne
The Dornish sun beat down mercilessly as Jon Connington's as he got off the plank at the port outside Sunspear's walls. Sweat trickled beneath his armor, the metal hot enough to burn through the padding. The smell of spices and unwashed bodies pressed close, merchants hawking their wares in the bastard Valyrian of the Rhoyne. His escort of Dornish spears said nothing, their faces hidden beneath veils.
At the palace gates, Arianne Martell waited.
Jon's breath caught. She looked so much like Elia—the same dark eyes, the same way of holding her head. But where Elia had been delicate, Arianne was all curves and confidence, her gown cut to display rather than conceal.
"Ser Jon." Her voice held music and mockery in equal measure. "Welcome to Sunspear. My father awaits."
They walked through corridors of pale pink marble, their footsteps echoing. Arianne's hips swayed with each step, drawing the eye but Jon kept his gaze fixed ahead.
"Tell me of my cousin," she said, not looking at him. "This boy who claims to be Aegon."
"He is no pretender." The words came sharper than intended. "I've known him since he was five. Taught him swordplay, languages, history—"
"Any sellsword's brat could learn such things."
Jon's jaw tightened. "He has his father's eyes. Rhaegar's eyes."
"Eyes can lie. Dyes and mummer's tricks—"
"He took Storm's End in a single night." Pride warmed his chest despite the heat. "The castle Stannis Baratheon couldn't crack in a year of siege. Your cousin understood that men fight harder for love than fear."
Arianne stopped walking, turned to study him. "You love him."
As I loved his father. "I serve him."
"The same thing, for you." Her dark eyes saw too much. "My uncle spoke of you. Jon Connington, who lost the Battle of the Bells because he was too proud to burn the town."
"I searched every house." The old shame burned fresh. "If I'd put Stoney Sept to the torch—"
"Robert Baratheon would be ash, and Rhaegar would be king." She resumed walking. "Instead, here we are."
They reached a door of polished oak. Arianne's fingers brushed his arm, light as silk. "My father remembers the past too well, Ser Jon. Tread carefully."
She left him there. Jon squared his shoulders and entered.
Doran Martell sat in his wheeled chair beside an open window, the sea breeze stirring his thin hair. He looked older than his years, gout having ravaged what war could not. A cyvasse board waited on the table between them.
"Jon Connington." Doran's voice was soft, contemplative. "The exile returns. Sit."
Jon took the offered chair, noting how it placed the sun in his eyes. Everything calculated, even hospitality.
"You look well for a dead man," Doran continued. "Though I suppose we have that in common. The realm thinks me weak, while you were thought expired of greyscale."
"The disease is arrested, not cured." Jon flexed his stone-grey fingers. "I have perhaps a year. Maybe two."
"Time enough to crown a king?"
"Time enough to right old wrongs."
Doran moved a dragon piece. "Tell me, Jon—why did Varys save Rhaegar's son but not his daughter? Why did this miraculous babe appear only now, when the realm bleeds?"
"The Spider's reasons were his own. What matters is—"
"What matters is proof." Doran's voice never rose, yet it cut like steel. "Seventeen years I've waited. Seventeen years of careful plans while my brother's skull gathered dust. Now you appear with a silver-haired boy and expect me to call him nephew?"
Jon leaned forward. "He is your blood. Elia's blood. And he needs Dorne."
"For what? To die gloriously like his father?"
"To unite the realm. To bring peace." Jon's hand clenched. "I've come to propose a marriage. Aegon and Arianne. The sun and spear united with the dragon, as it should have been—"
"No."
The word hung between them like a blade.
"You would refuse your nephew?"
"I refuse nothing." Doran moved another piece. "When I meet this boy, when I look into his eyes and see my sister there, then we shall speak of marriages. Until then, Dorne remains uncommitted."
"While you wait, the Lannisters consolidate power. The Tyrells—"
"Burn in wildfire, if the ravens speak true." Doran's fingers traced the board's edge. "Patience, Jon. You never learned it, but I have made it my life's art."
Jon stood abruptly, the chair scraping stone. "Aegon conquered Westeros with three dragons. Your ancestors bent the knee to strength."
"My ancestors bent the knee to survive." Doran looked up, and Jon saw steel beneath the silk. "Bring me proof, Jon Connington. Bring me something more than hope and old grief. Then Dorne will march."
Jon strode from the room, fury burning in his chest. Behind him, he heard Doran's soft voice: "The game is not won by the swift, my friend. Only by the patient."
The corridors blurred past. Jon's grey fingers ached, reminding him that patience was a luxury he could not afford.
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The Citadel, The Reach
The acrid smoke from burning ships drifted through the Citadel's windows as Sam's hands trembled as he shoved another tome into his satchel—The Bloodstone Compendium, its leather binding cracked with age. Outside, the clash of steel on steel grew closer.
"That's the last of them." Alleras secured a leather tube containing maps of the Lands of Always Winter. "We need to move."
Marwyn appeared in the doorway, his thick neck glistening with sweat. "The ironborn have breached the Honeywine Gate. We go now, or we don't go at all."
Gilly clutched little Aemon tighter, the babe mercifully quiet against her breast. Sam's heart clenched at the fear in her eyes. He'd promised to keep her safe, promised to get her somewhere warm and green and far from danger. Instead, he'd brought her to another city under siege.
"This way." Marwyn led them through a narrow passage behind a tapestry depicting the Conquest of Dorne. "The sewers connect to the old smuggler's tunnels. From there, we reach the Roseroad."
The stench hit Sam like a physical blow as they descended stone steps slick with moisture. His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. Gilly gagged beside him, pressing her face into the babe's swaddling.
"Breathe through your mouth," Alleras advised, though his own voice sounded strained.
They waded through ankle-deep filth, following Marwyn's bobbing torch. The archmaester moved with surprising agility for his bulk, navigating turns and intersections without hesitation. Sam tried not to think about what squelched beneath his boots.
"Here." Marwyn stopped at a junction where three tunnels met. "We rest a moment, catch our—"
Alleras's hand shot up. "Listen."
Voices echoed from the tunnel ahead, growing louder. Harsh, guttural tones that could only be ironborn.
"Quick, in here." Marwyn doused his torch and pulled them into an alcove barely large enough for four people. Sam pressed against the slimy wall, Gilly crushed against his chest. The babe stirred, a small whimper escaping.
Sam's hand covered the infant's mouth, gentle but firm. Please, he prayed to any god listening. Please don't cry.
The voices drew nearer, words becoming clear.
"—getting worse by the day, I tell you." The speaker's accent was thick, all hard consonants. "Yesterday he made us throw three thralls into the bay, said the drowned god demanded virgin blood."
"Virgin blood?" Another voice scoffed. "In Oldtown? Good luck finding that."
"It's that crown he keeps muttering about. The blood crown, he calls it. Spends hours staring at those old books he stole from the grey rats."
Sam's breath caught. Beside him, he felt Marwyn stiffen.
"Books won't help him take the city," a third voice grumbled. "We should be storming the Citadel, not playing with—"
"You want to tell him that? Remember what happened to Quellon Humble when he questioned the plan?"
"Fed his own tongue to the crows." The first speaker spat. "While still attached."
Their footsteps splashed past, voices fading into the darkness. Sam counted to one hundred before releasing the babe's mouth. Little Aemon remained blessedly silent, as if understanding the danger.
"The blood crown," Marwyn whispered, his voice grim. "Seven hells."
They resumed their journey in tense silence, emerging finally through a grate hidden by brambles. The Roseroad stretched before them, empty in the pre-dawn darkness. Sam gulped clean air like a drowning man.
"We need horses," Sam said, wringing sewage from his sleeves. "And we need to warn someone about—"
"We need to get to Dorne." The Sphinx's voice carried unusual urgency. "My mother's family will shelter us. House Martell has no love for the ironborn."
Sam nodded, though his heart sank. Dorne meant traveling even further from the Wall, from his duty. "I'll need to book passage north as soon as we reach Sunspear. The Lord Commander expects—"
"He'll have to wait." Marwyn's eyes fixed on Alleras with unsettling intensity. "Won't he, Lady Sarella?"
The words hung in the air like a blade. Alleras—Sarella—went perfectly still.
"How?" The question came out barely above a whisper.
"I've known since your second day at the Citadel." Marwyn's scarred face showed no surprise, only grim satisfaction. "The way you bound your chest, the careful way you went to the privy, the herbs you chewed to keep your voice low. I've traveled the world, girl. I've seen women warriors in Yi Ti and the Summer Isles. You're good, but not that good."
Sam's mind reeled. Alleras was... had always been... He thought of all the times they'd shared a room, changed clothes in proximity. The careful privacy suddenly made sense.
Gilly spoke first, practical as always. "Don't matter what's between your legs if you can shoot that bow."
Sarella's laugh held an edge of hysteria. "All this time, I thought I was so clever."
"You were." Marwyn's expression darkened. "But we have bigger problems. The blood crown—if Euron seeks what I think he seeks, then he's after the Crown of the Bloodstone Emperor."
"The Bloodstone Emperor?" Sam's voice cracked. "But that's just a legend from the Shadow Lands. The emperor who brought the Long Night, who practiced dark magic and—" He stopped, remembering the texts they'd salvaged. "Oh."
"Not a legend." Marwyn's thick fingers drummed against his thigh. "The crown exists. Hidden for eight thousand years, but real as the nose on your face. If Euron finds it..."
"He won't stop at Oldtown," Sarella finished.
"He won't stop at Westeros." Marwyn turned east, where the first hints of dawn touched the sky. "We need to reach Dorne, yes. But not to hide. We need to get word to someone who can stop him. Someone with the power to face whatever darkness that crown might wake."
Sam thought of Jon, somewhere beyond the Wall, facing his own darkness. Of the ice dragons sleeping in the furthest north. Of all the terrible knowledge they'd uncovered in the Citadel's forbidden vaults.
"Where do we start?" he asked, though he feared the answer.
Marwyn's smile held no warmth. "We start by staying alive long enough to matter."