Meereen:
They had been left a morbid statue, twisted and mutilated in the center of the catacombs. The ugly thing sat on the floor like a throne, smoldering in the darkness. Tyrion waved at his attendant, who handed him a flaming torch. He held it to the mess of amalgamated chains, fused together by dragon fire.
"By all the gods in the seven kingdoms," he whispered.
"No," corrected Grey Worm, "no gods live in this place. Only dragons."
Tyrion straightened, turning to Grey Worm and Varys, who'd followed him into this stinking dungeon beneath the great pyramid. Wherever he went in the world, one thing remained true: those in power liked to keep their prisoners underfoot...
"If there were dragons here, they are gone now," he said. "They have broken straight through the granite holdings up there. Valyria was built from dragon stone—rock alone is not sufficient to hold them for long." He sighed deeply. Daenerys was a dragon without the terrible mass of knowledge of her predecessors. He wasn't sure if that made her more dangerous or less. It was not her fault. She had been traipsing across the world, edge to edge, since she was born.
"Shall we send out parties to look for them?"
The lion shook his head at Grey Worm. "I am sure they will return if they grow hungry—or if they so wish." There was no point worrying about a dragon.
Tyrion let the ruined prison wash over him. He'd been in several of his own, though this one was adorned with deep wounds—scratches in the walls and blackened corners. A Harpie mask lay in the corner—remnants of former prey. In that moment he knew that they had to push forward, to leave Meereen and head west. This place was a prison for dragons.
"An audience waits on you," Varys reminded him. His hands reached deep into his long, silk sleeves. The Spider was as much at home on the outskirts of the known world as he'd been in King's Landing.
"Yes—of course," Tyrion eventually replied.
Essos: The Great Grass Sea: Camp of Khal Jhaqo:
"Can you hear that?"
"Yes—the blissful edge of a prolonged silence." Jorah pulled his horse up to a stop in the valley. It bristled against him, pawing the ground.
It was night. The cold moon tumbled indifferently above while one of the dragons played in the distance, more bat than monster. The valley had deepened, and now sharp peaks lay on either side with the grasses peeled from their black skin. Snowdrops—tiny, white flowers that bowed sadly to the ground—caught the moonlight, transforming the carpet of grass into a nest of dying stars. Their horses veered to graze on them if they did not keep the reins tight.
"I smell it," Jorah added, more seriously. One hand fussed with the pearl ring. The trinket comforted the old bear.
"A khalasar is nearby, and unless the dawn has decided to rise in the West, those are campfires beyond that rise."
Daario was correct. They walked their horses, creeping up where the rocks gave them cover until they could peer down into the next valley. Both men retreated, swaying back from the edge. There was indeed a khalasar—larger than any either of them had seen. It was butted up against every mountain flank, including theirs, with sprawling campfires glistening like the web of a demon spider. The first tent was a scant few meters from them.
The cold mists descending from the mountains and the hot smoke from the fires met above the khalasar, forming a strange, churning cloud. Jorah wondered if this is how the Storm God was born—from a nightmare of smoke and water.
*~*~*
Daenerys was left with the slave-witch. She kept her at a distance, wary of the whispered words that her ear struggled to untangle. They sounded similar to Quaithe's murmurings but rougher, from a fragmented part of the world. The silver queen had been left in the large tent with the smoky air twisting in the firelight. There was no need to guard her—with pale skin and white hair, there was no chance of making an escape.
"You must eat," the young witch insisted, placing another plate in front of the queen. "It is not poisoned—it would serve no purpose. You are afraid of me?" she added, mystified how a ruler of many great cities could fear a young slave like herself.
"I fear no one," Daenerys snapped back. She feared the witches. All witches.
"Your magic is more powerful than ours—it comes from somewhere deeper." The witch inched closer, sitting on the ground in front of Daenerys. Everyone knew the stories of the silver queen and what became of her, Kharl. His ashes ran with the winds of the Great Grass Sea. It is known. "Dragons are magic. They are the flames of the old world."
Daenerys was about to reply when she heard a sword cut the air outside the tent. It slashed into bone and blood before it was met with a cry of agony. Something heavy fell against the skinned wall and collapsed toward the ground. Both were on their feet at once. The slave girl ushered Daenerys to the far side of the tent and took a long, iron poker from the fire.
"What is happening?" whispered Dany, listening as the sword found another target—then another.
"The kharls—they fight," the witch replied. "I heard them argue before. They argued when they took us from the temple—when we passed through Vaes Dothrak and brushed the edges of the Red Waste and its cities of ghosts. They fight."
Daenerys looked to the tent. There was only one entrance, and it was awfully close to where the murdered man had fallen. "If they fight," she whispered to the witch, "the victor will come for me." She was fire and blood, power and magic. There was no treasure in the tent city worth more.
"That depends on who wins," the witch whispered. "Not all the kharls think that you should live. Some believe that you are the oncoming night. If you live, you will bring the long, cold death with your war."
"Why are you helping me?" she asked the young witch, who stood protectively in front of her, ready to fight whatever came into the tent.
"My master says that you should live, and so you shall."
Another died outside the tent. Then another. Another.
"Khaleesi..." The witch breathed as a gust of wind kicked up the flap of the tent. It was stained with blood.
Daenerys, who had stood before the mob of Harpies only days before, refused to stand behind the young witch. She strode forward, running her hand over the edge of the hot cauldron as she inched toward the temple entrance. She was a vision of death. Her silver gown was stained with horse blood, her eyes near violet in the dancing flames.
The sword sliced through the fastenings of the tent. It was pulled roughly back. Smoke rushed out as the cold air fled in, creating a wind that kicked up dust from the ground, stinging Daenerys's eyes.
"Silver Queen..." the khaleesi of Lhazar grinned with rotted teeth.
*~*~*
Without warning, the camp descended into madness. The sleeping and dancing turned into a fray with swords catching the air and spilling blood into the grass. Jorah and Daario shrank into the shadows while the skirmish raged. They had no idea who was killing whom—or if this was merely the evening's entertainment. Death was a part of the horselord culture. They lived to fight and yearned to bleed.
Daario led them along the right-hand flank of the camp, using the many skin tents as cover.
"Have you seen anything like this?"
"No," Jorah replied—a man of many words. "There..." He pointed to the largest structure—now burning in the night. The skins that wrapped its morbid structure had caught fire, and someone screamed from inside. The screaming stopped, but the flames climbed higher.
When they reached the tent, they found it surrounded by slain guards, some charred by the reach of the flame.
"She was here," Daario said. Jorah agreed. There were fresh sets of tracks from the entrance of the temple—two people—one being dragged—led away. They followed, dodging Dothraki fighting in the aisles between tents.
Some arakhs swept too close. Daario dipped backwards as one flew over his head, brandished by a painted warrior with blue skin and mangled braids of hair to his waist. He hissed and then cried wildly at Daario, swinging his arm back for another go. A broadsword erupted from his chest. He looked down, eyes wide in shock at the steel protruding through his skin. Jorah was behind, both hands on the handle. He dragged the heavy thing back, sliding it out of the man's body. The warrior fell to the side, and Daario nodded in thanks.
As they followed, they caught sight of Dany's silver hair ducking through the tents. One of the Dothraki warriors had her by the arm, dragging her toward the outskirts of the settlement with an escort of guards. They were gaining ground when a dozen fighters filled the path in front of them. They'd happened upon Kharl Jhaqo's men, and they recognized the Westerosi knight.
"Jorah the Andal," one of them said, stepping forward.
Jorah and Daario looked at each other, sighed in unison, and then lifted their weapons; they would have to fight their way through.
*~*~*
Daenerys wrestled against the khaleesi, but she was nearly twice her size and strong, dragging her as though she were less than a child. As they moved away from the tent city, the air grew colder and the night took hold. She realized that they were near the sea. Daenerys smelled the edge of salt in the breeze and felt the faintest memory of sailing upon it, rocking gently across the waves that would take her home to Westeros.
Not tonight, she thought, as they came to an abrupt halt.
The khaleesi's guards hung back, watching the city for any that dared pursue them. The horselord queen drew her curved sword and held it to the silver queen's neck. She spoke the common tongue well, hissing the words at Daenerys.
"There is power in a queen's blood," the khaleesi began, her fingers digging into Daenerys's arm. "The others plan to sacrifice you to the great mare and stir magic that has been forbidden for a thousand years."
Ah—the witches, Daenerys realized. Jhaqo had to collect them from the free cities and desert hovels, as magic was strictly forbidden. She flinched as the blade pressed deeper.
"If you are dead, there can be no sacrifice."
Stray fighters from the city approached the guards and began to fight. The clink of swords was drowned by the steady breath of the khaleesi, whose blade began to slide against her throat.