The river narrowed, forcing the immense fleet to proceed three ships abreast, creeping one line after another. The sailors groped ahead like blind men through the choking fog, some using long poles to prod forward, lest the hull strike hidden ruins or the wrecks that lurked beneath the waters.
No wind stirred within the Sorrows. The sails hung slack and useless; to drive the warships upstream against the current was a task of sheer muscle.
The newly sworn khalasars prayed incessantly, their eyes wide and white with fear. Some bent over the rails retching, all of them wan and miserable.
For men born to horses, this was their first time aboard ships. Their wretched state drew jeers from Aggo and the other bloodriders—but the mockers had short memories. The first time Drogo's riders had boarded ships in Slaver's Bay, they'd fared no better, disgracing themselves just as thoroughly.
Every place a lantern could hang aboard ship was hung with one, yet the fog was so dense that Drogo, standing hands clasped behind his back at the center of the deck, could see no more than faint glimmers of light to port, starboard, and astern, like scattered fireflies.
Once they had entered the cursed waters, he had ordered his men to keep still. One careless step might send a man plunging into the river.
"Hsssss…"
The dragons rumbled from the masthead. Wherever their mother was, they clung close.
Others thought nothing of it. Only Drogo knew the truth—that it was Daenerys who drew them. Between the Mother of Dragons and her children ran a thread of instinct, a bond of mind and blood that let them find each other without sight or scent.
Days had passed since the quarrel, yet Daenerys still met Drogo in silence. But her silence was not denial; by night, in her body's language, she made plain that her husband was still her conqueror.
Wife and children all aboard one ship—so even within this uncanny river, Drogo felt at ease.
Missandei's prison-ship he had stripped of Unsullied guards, replacing them with the tiger-soldiers he had spared at Saehol. If the dead of the Sorrows sought Daenerys, it would be they who paid the price.
He knew who stood beside him now by the reek of rum. "Captain Qolyns," Drogo said, "has this land ever known aught but fog?"
The old corsair bowed to the sound of his voice. "Yes, Khal. Since the city of Chroyane was despoiled by Volantis and Valyria, since they hanged Prince Garin in his golden cage, the mists have never lifted."
He drank deep before continuing: "This is no common fog. It is woven of sorcery. Many a sailor has lost himself here—river-boatmen, corsairs, even great galleys. They wander without hope of sun, until madness or hunger claims them. Their unquiet souls still drift in this air, and swim beneath these waters."
Drogo believed him. The air here was damp and chill, tickling his nostrils as though with rot.
The Shrouded King ruled these stone men. Drogo could not but worry. "The sorcery—surely it does not fall on all? Some must pass unharmed, for men have sailed through before."
"Perhaps," the captain allowed. "Garin's curse does not bind every soul. Yet with a thousand warships stirring these waters, who can say we will not wake the dead… and the damned?"
That was true enough. Here in the mist, there was no way to guard against the unknown. Drogo had already ordered every man to keep watch as if his life hung on it—but even that might not be enough.
The talking ravens of Jon Connington circled still. Drogo knew chaos would soon come; the only question was how great the storm would be. One thing he was certain of: the ship that held Missandei would be struck. Connington had leapt overboard as soon as they entered the Sorrows—scouts had reported it. The old fish swam for his death. Drogo let him live, for the trap required bait.
As the fleet pressed on, the land grew ever stranger. Fingers of stone scraped the surface, lantern-light showing the rest of those limbs twisting below. Pale faces stared up from the dark.
All now believed what the sailors had warned—that this fog was not born of nature. Spirits swarmed in the water, corruption festered in the very air.
And yet, no stone men had yet risen to attack.
"Do they breathe like fish beneath the river?" someone asked.
Qolyns nodded. "When the greyscale takes them to its final stage, even their lungs turn to stone. They grow slow, their blood sluggish. They need little air to sustain them. One deep draught above, and they can linger long below."
The questions came thick and fast. The old pirate, drunk on half a bottle more of rum, snapped at them all—but not at Drogo. For his khal he answered.
"If nothing grows in this cursed fog, how do the stone men live?"
The captain belched. "On greylichen that creeps across the ruins. On fish. On waterweeds. Enough to sustain their wretched half-life."
Death and despair walked hand in hand here.
"Do they eat men?" Drogo asked bluntly.
"They do," Qolyns said. "Hunger maddens them more than hate. The elders of Volantis once sent them food by doomed convicts—but those boats never returned. All who go are eaten, or else join the damned."
Even Drogo, bold as he was, felt a shiver at that. Man devouring man…
He had seen the wrecks below, and the pale faces, but no trace of lichen.
"Do they… breed? As men do? And this greylichen you speak of—why have I not seen it?"
Aggo's endless tongue put the question.
The captain rolled his eyes. "Remember—they were men once, and still are. As for the lichen—you'll see. We are yet in the outer reaches. When we pass beneath the Bridge of Dreams, you'll glimpse the Palace of Love of Nymeria, Warrior-Queen of the Rhoynar—its stones smothered in greylichen."
First Mate Jowin snorted. "Palace of Love? Call it what it is. Wars and fog have long since ground it to rubble. Palace of Sorrows, more like."
Nymeria of Ny Sar—queen of the Rhoynar—had led ten thousand ships across the narrow sea to land upon Dorne's shore. She had wed Mors Martell, and with him conquered all Dorne. Six kings she bound in golden fetters, and sent them to the Wall.
A warrior-queen. Even Drogo, proud as he was, could not help but admire her. Sometimes he thought—had she lived in his time, he would have conquered her too, taken her as bride, and set her to follow his horse.
At that, silence fell. Even Aggo closed his mouth.
In the Sorrows, some questions were better left unasked. The longer they lingered, the more it seemed they had already ridden into hell.
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