The morning sun beat down on the red bricks of Meereen with a swaggering sort of pride, as if the "Wizard's Winter" that had paralyzed the North was nothing more than a bad dream or a light breeze that had lost its way.
Boom... Boom... Boom...
The drumbeats were steady, heavy, and rhythmic. Accompanied by the synchronized, metallic stomp of the Unsullied, the army marched out of the south gate. They looked like a dark, winding iron serpent of spears and shields, setting their sights on the road to Yunkai.
Since Daenerys had returned on the back of Drogon, the scattered search parties had been trickling back into the city. First came the Windblown, led by the Ragged Prince; then the Second Sons; and finally the Stormcrows, commanded by the Queen's blue-bearded lover, Daario Naharis.
The Windblown had already taken the vanguard position, disappearing into the heat haze ahead of the main column. Dany had been a woman of her word, honoring the terms Ser Barristan had promised in her name: once Yunkai was broken and Astapor was rebuilt, Eddard and his fleet would assist the Ragged Prince in his lifelong dream, taking Pentos.
Ben Plumm and his Second Sons fanned out along the flanks, acting as a screening force. Ben had spent most of the war being a fair-weather fan, his loyalty shifting whenever the wind changed, but the sight of the dragons being ridden by both the Queen and the Karstark Lord had made him the most attentive soldier in the host. He knew which side the fire was on now.
Surrounding the Queen were the Dragon Mother's Servants, armed with spears and those distinctive leather shields. They had proven themselves in the city's riots; they weren't just freedmen anymore, they were a legion that could stand eye-to-eye with the Unsullied.
The Strong Shield Army brought up the rear under a new commander, Molono Yos Dob. He was a former slave, once a scribe, who had spent the last month organizing the city's laborers for Eddard's sanitation squads. He looked nervous atop his horse, constantly wiping sweat from a face that seemed more suited to an inkpot than a helmet. He was a political appointment, a sign that the "Queen's children" were taking charge of their own destiny, rather than relying on a Northern "Bear."
Further off, a Dothraki khalasar of nearly twenty thousand riders tracked the column across the rolling hills. They moved like a mobile city of horse-flesh and braided hair, stretching until they merged with the shimmering horizon. Most were the remnants of Khal Jhaqo's host. Jhaqo had made the mistake of thinking a lone Queen in the grass was easy prey; Drogon had disagreed, turning the Khal and his bloodriders into a pile of ash in seconds. Now, under the command of Aggo, Dany's own bloodrider they were a terrifying addition to the Queen's strength.
High above, a goshawk circled in the deep blue sky, only to be startled away by a sequence of primordial roars. The sky belonged to Drogon and Rhaegal now.
Eddard had spent the last week convincing Daenerys that dragons weren't meant for basements. "They're sky-gods, Dany," he'd told her. "You can't keep a volcano in a cellar and expect it not to erupt."
He'd given her a piece of dragonglass etched with the same [Animal Friend] rune he had used for Bran and Bennett. Within a single night, the Mother of Dragons had mastered the structure. Now, as she rode her silver mare at the center of the column, she felt the heartbeat of her children in the sky. She felt their hunger, their playfulness, and their fierce, protective heat. It was a far better way to rule than resolving disputes over dead sheep in a humid throne room.
Beside her, Daario Naharis rode with his usual swagger. His blue hair was freshly dyed, and he gazed at the Queen with a look that Ser Barristan found increasingly offensive. To the old knight, Daario was a different kind of poison, one that worked on the heart instead of the gut.
The march to Yunkai was roughly fifty leagues, about two hundred miles of sun-scorched plains. The fields, once salted and burned by the Masters, were beginning to show the first tentative green sprouts of wheat. Freedmen working the soil stopped to shout "Mhysa!" as the column passed.
Dany smiled at them, but her thoughts drifted toward Jorah Mormont. Her "Big Bear" was gone, currently doing penance on a ship somewhere in the bay. She hoped the new child-king in the North would be merciful.
Out on the salty swells of the bay, the Sunbeam cut through the water. Jorah Mormont knelt on the deck, his hands raw and stinging as he gripped a heavy scrub brush. He was meticulously cleaning the grime from the crevices of the deck-planks.
If he didn't want to rot in a lightless bilge-hole, he had to serve as a common sailor. It was Eddard's command, overseen by the one man Jorah actually respected in this fleet: Jason Mallister.
"Ser Jorah, take five," Lord Mallister said, stepping onto the main deck. He handed over a heavy leather waterskin. "Take a pull of this. On a boat, brandy is the only thing that keeps your spine straight."
Jorah paused, looking at his calloused, wet hands. "I'm a sailor, My Lord. How can a deckhand accept a gift from an Admiral?" He tried for a joke, but it came out sounding like a man chewing on gravel.
"Don't be a martyr, Ser," Mallister said, waving him off. "Eddard just doesn't want you starting a riot. He's not a cruel man, but he is a practical one. And besides..."
Mallister pointed to the sky, where Viserion's silver-white form was a gleaming speck in the clouds. "The King is watching from up there. I doubt you'll try anything while the dragon is overhead."
Jorah looked up, a sharp pang of envy hitting him. To fly... He took the waterskin, the spicy liquor burning a warm trail down his throat and into his chest. "Thank you," he rasped. "When do we head back to the North?"
"Once Yunkai falls," Mallister replied, taking a swig himself. his eyes fixed on the horizon. "I haven't seen my son in over a year. I'm ready for home."
Suddenly, a roar echoed from the heavens - a long, rolling sound that signaled an alert.
Mallister's posture shifted instantly. He scrambled toward the aftercastle, pulling his brass telescope from his cloak. "LOOKOUT! STATUS REPORT!"
"WESTERN WATERS!" the voice from the mast-head shrieked. "SHIPS ON THE HORIZON! NUMEROUS!"
"Sound the horns! Get the men armed! Battle stations!"
Awooo... Awooo... Awooo...
The mournful, urgent blare of the Karstark war-horns rippled through the fleet. Jorah Mormont didn't wait. He sprinted for the hold, bursting into a cabin the size of a closet. He dragged a heavy iron chest from under his bunk and began to strap on his mail. He threw the green Mormont surcoat over his shoulders and drew his longsword, the steel catching the dim lantern-light.
Atonement begins today, Jorah thought, his face set in a mask of grim determination.
On the western horizon, the silhouettes of a massive armada were emerging. They were moving in a disciplined, aggressive formation. Lord Mallister recognized the flags immediately: the burning skulls of Volantis.
"The slave trade is the blood of the East," Eddard's voice echoed in Mallister's memory. "Qarth, Tolos, and Volantis will never let Daenerys keep Meereen. They'll come for her. They have to."
The Volantene fleet was here to extinguish the Dragon Queen and her "Wizard" ally. They brought hundreds of ships and thousands of mercs. But they had made one fatal mistake.
They didn't know the "Wizard" was already in the air.
High above the bay, Eddard Karstark banked Viserion toward the enemy vanguard. He looked at the vast forest of Volantene masts and grinned.
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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