Meereen:
A chain slid along a stone floor in the darkness, running well-worn grooves through Meereen's dungeons.
The air was suffocating, thick with marble dust. Walls met the dragon's nose at every turn, biting at its scales as it squeezed its body through passageways meant for man, not beast. Rhaegal was followed by his brother, Viserion, who dragged the melted remnants of his chains behind. They lingered like entrails, falling away link by link.
As soon as they emerged into a larger chamber, the golden dragon climbed the nearest pillar and scratched across the ceiling like a caged bat seeking escape. They snapped at each other, running brief streaks of flame at their prison.
Meereen (Outskirts):
"What are we going to do about the dwarf?"
Daario Naharis turned his head very slightly to his unlikely companion. The bear's eyes remained at the gravel track ahead, focused on the expanse of half-dead grass and starved earth that lay between him and his silver queen. Their silver queen. "Do," he replied, "there is nothing to do." His next words possessed a slight edge of amusement as he made an observation. "He does not like you."
"That could be said of many," Jorah Mormont replied flatly. He had no care for what people might think of him. All those thoughts had been lost long ago when he'd been thrown into exile and cast aside by his family. Almost... Jorah couldn't leave this world until he'd set things right with Daenerys, even if all that meant was returning her to the crumbling city in one piece. "He is far from alone in those thoughts. Still, what are we to do? He is a Lannister, unguarded and loose in a fragile city."
"I would not say that he is unguarded. Grey Worm will flay him and leave his skin to dry on the great pyramid if he thinks him a threat." As for the city, Meereen was a ruin before they'd touched it. One day the sleeping fire mountain behind it would lay to ash whatever was left.
"Grey Worm is a soldier, ill-trained to sense the type of danger the imp can devise. A man like him can bring down empires without the touch of a sword. Look to Westeros for proof of that." Tyrant that Tywin was, he formed a glue that held the warring nations together. Without him, chaos would soon spread through the realm. Daenerys should be there to drink its advantage, not lingering on the edge of the world.
Their horses turned off the path and headed directly into the rugged dirt. The dragon flew this path, and they would attempt to follow—over cliff and sea if need be. Behind them, the golden pyramid gave a final flare of light before vanishing. They were sinking, following the gradual dip of the earth toward the Great Grass Sea.
"You should give the small man more credit," Daario replied. "I hear he knows a thing or two about blood."
"I give him a great deal of credit," Jorah hissed under his breath. He had brought Tyrion as a gift, one he had expected to be opened and safely tossed aside by now. The man may look the part of a circus creature, but he was every inch his father's son, albeit with a decent touch of wit. "Tyrion has three talents: wit, wine, and survival."
Daario's horse pulled up closer beside Jorah's, making the beast snort and buck slightly. Like the bear, it did not enjoy company. "I think the half-man could be of use. I watched him in the pits. When he saw the queen on Drogon's back, he became her creature. She has a way of turning men to her cause. That is Daenerys' talent."
Jorah kept his suspicions all the same.
The pair continued north before finally drifting east until the sun started to tire and dipped behind them. The sand, now dotted with the first wisps of grass, turned blood-red against the sky. In the distance lay the first shadows of mountains, but they were far off and difficult to pick out from the low-hung clouds that dreamed of rain. Daario had taken to singing, chirping at the approaching night in a language Jorah recognized but could not understand. It was preferable to the awkward conversation Daario had tried earlier. There was little Jorah enjoyed less, and he was thoroughly tired of it after his travels with Tyrion.
A sliver of water cut a path through the ground. It wasn't much to look at, but it was clean and deep. They let their horses rest and started a fire in a pit. Despite their obvious differences, they had a similar style of travel—light. Their eyes kept to the sky, watching for Drogon's black form until it was properly dark and they retired to their rugs and the warmth of the flames. Mormont lost himself in the dancing light, sinking further into the streaks of fire until Daario touched him gently on the shoulder.
"You won't find her in the flames."
"No," thought Jorah, shrugging Daario off as one might dislodge a fly, "she's out there."
The pretty sell-sword went back to singing, lying down to watch the stars. The bleeding comet owned the night, leaving a silver trail behind it as though it were made from Valyrian steel tossed into the abyss.
Essos: The Great Grass Sea:
Khal Jhaqo reached for his sword, sending the string of bones around his waist into another morbid song. They rustled together, clinking and banging with the hollow notes of death until he stilled. He felt safer with the curved blade set across his lap, reflecting the roaring light of the campfires that transformed the grassy hills into a city. A dragon sat opposite, her cloth almost the color of flame. She was fire, he thought, and blood and death and power.
The silver queen appeared calm and knelt on the dirt. She reached out, running her fingers through it, creating patterns that she erased and redid, over and over while the camp writhed. Food and wine were left untouched to her side. She does not trust me, he thought. Had he wished her harm, she would know it at once. Khals were not like the kings from across the sea. They looked their enemies in the eye as they tore their hearts from their chests. It is known.
"Do you not eat?"Khal Jhaqo finally asked, in Dothraki. She looked up with violet eyes. They were foreign—the eyes of ancient Valyria. He wondered where her dragon was. They had seen the creature dipping and playing in the winds that hugged the mountains. It had caught one of the great eagles mid-flight, clipping it by the wing—brushing it with a rush of fire before swallowing it whole. Sometimes, when the light caught her a certain way, he thought that she might do the same to him.
"I am not hungry." Daenerys lied. She'd have gladly plucked the ants from the dirt beside her simply to have something to fill her stomach. Her power rested on a fragile gamble of fear—did the Khal believe that she could call a dragon to her defense? Drogon was a dragon, fierce but unreliable. He'd come if he wished and for no other reason. Daenerys would sooner rely on the whispers of spiders. "Your khalasar has grown beyond Drogo's."
"Before you are six of the largest khalasars. They joined our number many months ago."
"Alliance? That is not the way of the Dothraki." Though even as she cast her eye carefully to some of their number gathered around the khal's fire, she saw the truth. The tattoos on their bodies belonged to several groups, and even their features differed slightly. They seemed easy with each other, as though something more than gold bound them together.
"There are words from the East," Jhaqo continued, running his palm along the gentle curve of his sword. He petted it as she did her dragons. "The smoke is stirring in the water. Stars bleed in the sky. Dragons fly. The witches say the frosts are coming and that soon the undead will walk from west to east."
"Frosts..." she whispered, frowning and leaning in towards the fire. "I have seen a wall of ice in my dreams and snow in the summer isles."
"Yes..." Jhaqo purred. "The witches say the dragons see what men cannot. Tell me more about your dreams."
Ah, thought Daenerys, this is why I live.
The silver queen reached toward the wine and raised it to her lips, drinking deeply.
*~*~*
"What is that?" Mormont was picking at the wrapping on his arm, wincing as he tried to get a hastily tied knot undone. The fabric was soiled with blood and dirt—no good for the wound beneath.
"Nothing."
Daario sat up and inspected his cup. There was ash in the water, so he tossed it into the grass and wandered over to the stream. As soon as he went beyond the glow, the air turned with a cold bite. He had spent most of his life riding this part of the world, and yet he'd noticed the land shift of late. There was a new scent in the air—something he recognized from the West. Ice.
He dipped the cup into the water and returned, sitting beside Jorah—which promptly earned him another grunt of disapproval. What they said about the Mormonts was true. They were built like bears and shared their prickly temperament.
"The last thing I need is for you to lose that arm; you will be no good to the queen without it." Daario cut the ties loose so that Jorah could unwind the bandage, then he drowned the wound in freezing water. He didn't flinch. Bears did not feel the cold. He inspected the torn flesh. "Not so bad."
"I know," Jorah replied, finding himself another bandage.
"At least it didn't ruin your pretty face."
Jorah simply turned his head to the side to show off a healing slice across his cheek earned in the fighting pits.
"Oh..."
There was a pause. A piece of wood collapsed into the fire, sending a roar of embers into the night. Finally, they both laughed. They were destined to love the same woman, and it was beginning to sink in that they were stuck with each other. Jorah shook his head, and Daario helped him fasten a fresh bandage.
"She does have a temper on her though..."
Jorah could only nod. "She is a dragon."
"The last dragon."
"Unlikely," Jorah corrected him. "The Targaryens bred like wildfire, men and women alike. At one time there was a bastard uprising." Though he was certain that Daario knew more than he pretended. Sell-swords were well versed in the armies of the world. Who had money—who did not. "Some say the Blackfyres continue to thrive in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to rise against the world. Daenerys is the only true dragon with a claim Westeros might recognize."
"And she has dragons."
"And she has dragons..." he agreed.
There was another pause in the conversation as both men instinctively quietened, listening to something on the air. It was barely audible beneath the spitting of their fire, but it was there. Sure as his own heart, Jorah knew the beat of a dragon's wings.
"Drogon?" he whispered, standing up at once, walking away from the blinding light of the fire. Daario joined him, and they both surveyed the sky.
"I heard it too," Daario assured the other man. "The dragon is close."
"It means nothing," Jorah replied. "Dragons hunt a wide ground."
"Do you think he means to hunt us?" They were easy prey, camped in the open with a fire to guide the great beast down upon them.
"Perhaps. He is a dragon. One can never know the mind of a dragon."
Scales and leather beat the air again, closer this time. They turned as one, searching again. The dragon was closing in on them.
"I still don't see it," Daario whispered, feeling the handle of his blade.
"Put the last of the rabbit on the fire," Jorah replied, without taking his eyes off the sky.
"Why?"
"Trust me."
Trust him. Daario eyed the bear. Is that not what his queen had done? Trust him, and yet he found himself doing the same, returning to the fire.