"Is that the Titan of Braavos!?"
What those two colossal stone hands were doing was something not even ten giants could accomplish. Dothraki Khal Drogo could tell from Romen's cry of astonishment.
Romen's mind was slow; he had always naively believed that the massive stone figure standing guard at the mouth of Braavos' harbor was truly the King of the Giants—the Titan.
So now, faced with a figure even more immense and powerful, he naturally thought it must be another giant.
"Boom, boom!"
The giant Romen dropped to his knees, lowering his head in worship, paying homage in his own way to the stone figure.
Those were indeed the hands of a stone colossus—but no one else believed it to be the Titan. To all but Romen, it was clear that the figure was some stone automaton, moved by sorcery.
Even Drogo, normally unflappable, was convinced that the owner of those stone hands was nothing more than a puppet controlled by some sorcerer.
For tales had long been told in the lands of Valyria—of a powerful mage in the Sorrows, who could awaken statues with her breath. They called her gift the Gray Kiss.
When the colossal hands, lifting a warship from the river, rose high enough to show their elbows, Drogo recognized the stone figure.
It was a massive statue the Valyrians had crafted in imitation of Herono, a hero of the Bloody Century.
This colossus had no head.
Where its head should have been, at the stump of its neck, stood a man swathed in thick, funeral wrappings, hideously scarred. Only his violet eyes betrayed his identity. Drogo knew instantly—it was young Aegon!
The gigantic statue rose to its full height, and though the waters of the Rhoyne were deep, they reached only to its waist. The sight was overwhelming.
The colossus bore the warship forward in its hands, as though preparing to hurl its "toy" straight at Drogo's flagship, the Dragon Gallant.
They were close enough now that, had the green demon—the wildfire—been unleashed, their own ship would surely be caught in the inferno. Drogo had seen firsthand what wildfire could do.
He shouted in alarm:
"Kollensa! Turn the rudder! Bring her about—oarsmen, full speed ahead!"
At once the helmsman and crew sprang into action, the flagship wheeling and driving back upriver with all the strength of its eight hundred oars.
The stone giant moved slowly, but each stride carried it twenty, thirty yards. Fortunately, the refitted Dragon Gallant, vast and swift, soon left the colossus far behind.
When the distance between them had stretched to a full league, Drogo summoned his dragons back with a great shout:
"Viserion! Rhaegal! Return to your father's side!"
The green and the white dragon, who had been circling above for light, beat their wings and came back at once.
Had the colossus been a living giant of flesh and blood, the dragons might not have obeyed—perhaps they would have gone to battle it. But this statue gave off no life at all, so they returned without interest.
Once the two beasts were perched again on the mast, Drogo ordered the horns blown in a special call.
"Wooooo—"
"BOOM!"
The horns had not yet ceased when wildfire roared to life.
Green mushroom clouds shrieked as they tore through the fog and clawed their way heavenward. Streaks of green flame shot across the skies like falling stars, and the Rhoyne for a league around was painted a ghastly emerald.
Even those who had already seen the terror of wildfire trembled at the sight.
The eunuch quartermaster, now back aboard an Unsullied ship, gave thanks in silence, certain he had just escaped death.
Then came the horrified cries:
"The Queen! The Queen is still in there!"
Drogo, heavy with sorrow, muttered:
"The Queen is not there. What burned to nothing was only the plaything of some lordling. May she find a better fate in her next life."
In the water, wildfire's fury soon sputtered out, extinguished.
The fog parted in a vast hole, and for the first time in a day, sunlight poured down into the Sorrows.
Of the massive statue, only its lower half remained above the river.
Drogo thought grimly: That should be the end of young Aegon.
Varys the Spider and Illyrio Mopatis' so-called "true dragon" were gone, and the Khal was pleased.
His wife's lingering ties were severed; none would deceive or sway her now.
But wary of the Sorrows' strangeness, Drogo kept his fleet moving, rather than staying by his Khaleesi's side. He trusted Daenerys would understand.
The fleet pressed on, approaching the ruins of Menaria the Warrior-Queen's palace—later called the Palace of Love, now known only as the Palace of Grief.
It stood upon a wooded island, or rather a massive stone outcrop, moss-covered and cloaked in ferns, shrouded by gray mist.
As they neared, its outline sharpened: broken towers thrust blindly toward the sky; halls and corridors loomed from the fog and vanished again; graceful walls, carved pillars, dragon-etched arches, terraces and pergolas—remnants of ancient glory.
But time, war, and the river had reduced it all to ruin. Moss lay thick upon the fallen stones, as if competing with the towers in height. Black vines smothered the windows and climbed the walls.
Three-quarters of the palace lay hidden in mist, yet even what could be seen was enough. Drogo thought that, restored, this fortress would outshine all Valyria's palaces in beauty.
Were the Sorrows not so cursed, he would have stopped, claiming some excuse, to let his men believe Daenerys truly dead, while he secretly showed her the wonders within.
But Drogo did not dare.
Daenerys, however, soared inside on dragonback.
Mounted upon Drogon, she flew over a great square altar blazing with light. At its center sat a woman swathed head to toe in golden funeral wrappings.
From the shape beneath the cloth, Daenerys knew she was female.
Beside her lay a blood-red coffin, its lid carved with a golden spear piercing a crimson sun.
The Mother of Dragons hovered above, calling down:
"Was it you who summoned me here?"
The woman replied simply:
"Yes."
Her voice was soft, yet carried authority, and a weary timelessness.
"Why call me?" Daenerys asked.
"You may help me in days to come," the woman said. "So I summoned you, to bind us with good fortune."
Suspicious, Daenerys asked:
"Are you a sorceress?"
The voice that carried so far surely meant she was.
The woman only laughed softly.
"Whether I am a witch, let that lie. You may call me the Queen of Shrouds."
Daenerys gasped.
"You… you are the Queen of Shrouds, mistress of the Sorrows, from legend!"
The woman nodded with a touch of mockery.
"So it seems my name carries, even to the ears of the true dragon's heir."
Daenerys stared.
"I grew up exiled among the Free Cities. Of course I heard of you."
She paused, then pressed:
"You say I can aid you? Aid the ruler of the Stone Men?"
"Indeed," said the Queen of Shrouds. "You are blood of the dragon. Within you lies power beyond imagining. When Winter comes, perhaps only you may shelter my people."
Daenerys scoffed:
"To protect your Stone Men? I have no such wish."
"Do not refuse too quickly," the woman said with mystery. "It is not only the Stone Men I ask you to shield, but countless healthy men and women living in wealth. And in return, I will grant you what you most desire, before ever you act."
"My husband will give me all I want," Daenerys said coldly.
The Queen's voice deepened.
"What you most desire, your husband will not give you."
Daenerys stiffened. She felt laid bare.
"Trust me," the Queen whispered. "We are allies, not foes. I can be your firmest friend. All the lands my people tread, save one, I can give to you."
"Whether our bond is a blessing depends on your truth," Daenerys said.
And with that, she urged Drogon away, plunging back into the gray fog.
"She hides her heart, never yielding, never content to stand behind a man," the Queen murmured, caressing the carving upon the coffin lid.
An hour later, she turned her gaze to Missandei, bound and gagged. Tearing the cloth from the girl's mouth, the Queen bent and pressed her lips to hers—gray lips, the Gray Kiss.
Jon Connington, weeping for the death of young Aegon, sat slumped and saw nothing.
But color returned to Missandei's pale cheeks, even as the ropes still bit into her starving body.
The Queen of Shrouds looked upon the fallen Lord of Griffin's Roost and said:
"Once Lord of Griffin's Roost, it is time you reclaim your ancient seat."
Jon Connington lifted his hollow eyes.
"The Stone Men are burned, my prince is dead. With what shall I reclaim Griffin's Roost?"
The Queen laughed coldly.
"All within the mists are mine. All who breathe its gray fog will wear gray skin. They shall be your weapons of vengeance."
At her words, a glimmer lit Connington's eyes. His grief twisted to a cruel smile.
Elsewhere, sailors still argued in disbelief:
"That rider—she was the Queen! How could she have survived wildfire?"
"Are you witless? Our Queen is the Unburnt. No wildfire could slay her!"
Drogo heard none of it. Smiling, he spread his arms wide, ready to embrace his wife.
Together they would cross sea and river, land upon Dragonstone, and with dragons beneath them, begin the fiery conquest of Westeros.
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🐉 Dragon King of Ice and Fire
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