Chapter VI: Bran I – In Faraway Places
The pyramids were bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon sun as the crow flew over them. At other times, Bran had seen the streets busy with life. Sometimes, it was brown-skinned men and women wearing heavy collars, running errands for their masters. Sometimes, it was the Unsullied who patrolled the streets looking for shadows wearing masks. Once, he saw a great parade in honor of the harpy goddess of Old Ghis, when the city was young yet. But none of that mattered now. There were still men in the streets, and they hurried back and forth. They didn’t wear collars, nor did they wear the uniform armor favored by organized armies everywhere. Some carried arakhs, others spears, and they all ran towards the Grand Market. The crow followed, curiously.
In the market, on a raised dais made of wood, stood a couple of men as disparate as the group assembled around them. Bran listened as they spoke of war, but soon lost interest. Wars this far east were of no consequence to the three-eyed raven until they were over, until they could affect the fate of Westeros.
The dark, cavernous room further west was a different matter. The four men and women did not concern themselves with war, either, but they were far more dangerous to the world than any war. And they might see him, so the mouse that was Bran stayed as far back in the shadows as it could, hoping their gazes would glide over him.
They were arranged around a brazier whose light did little more than underline the darkness of the black stone the walls were made of. The men faced each other, as did the women, but the raven couldn’t discern their identities, for they wore masks and red, shapeless robes without adornments.
“Is it certain?” one of the men asked.
The woman to his left nodded. “We have three independent reports. The dragon is in Valyria.”
“And without a master,” the other woman added.
“It is dangerous, what you propose,” the second man, the self-appointed voice of reason, pointed out. “Many may die in the attempt.”
“It is a sign from our Lord, is it not?” the first woman said. “A creature of fire, near our lands, and without a master. The Targaryen woman clearly was not favored by him, but we are.”
“And with a dragon, they will hear our words,” the second woman added.
“But how?” the voice of reason asked.
“Let me tell you about a horn,” the first man began, but the raven already knew that story, and so he moved away and crossed the Narrow Sea.
In Dorne, the prince stood in his solar, his back to the door as he gazed out the window towards the harbor near Sunspear. The many-colored sails unfurled in the wind as the ships left their berths with the tide. Then the door to the prince’s solar opened, and a girl who looked more like a boy, with skin as dark as a Summer Islander’s, was led inside, followed by a guard who loomed over her shoulder like a hawk. She peered at the prince with inscrutable eyes.
“It took us quite a while to find you, my lady,” the prince said to the girl. After a courteous bow, he turned back to view the ships.
“I am not a lady,” the girl said.
“But you are Prince Oberyn’s oldest surviving daughter, are you not?”
The girl remained silent for a moment. “And you think I want your position, is that it? Will you kill me for it?”
The prince hummed and pursed his lips. “If you do, the Citadel is a terrible place to gather support. Besides, we are kin, however distantly. After what your sisters did, I would prefer to avoid that sort of thing. It only breeds dissent.”
“Then why am I here?”
Finally, the prince turned around to look at the girl properly. “I have a proposition for you. You did not follow in your sisters’ folly. You are not Ellaria’s daughter. You are more your uncle’s kin than any of your sisters, as far as I can tell. I think an alliance would benefit us both, and a sense of continuity would benefit Dorne.”
“You are suggesting a marriage.”
The prince shrugged. “I might consider your younger sisters, should you decline.”
The girl cocked her head. “I will think about it.”
We will see, the raven thought. He would need to look into her, to figure out whether this development was good or bad. Whether something would need to be done. But for now, he drifted further north, until he reached the Wall. At Castle Black, the new Lord Commander was talking with what little he had in the way of officers.
“And they’re staying quiet?” he asked, looking at his men.
The men exchanged glances and shrugged. “Asked to buy some things to help with rebuilding their homes, but that’s it.”
The Lord Commander looked to the ceiling and sighed. “I guess we’re merchants now,” he grumbled. “At least we’ll get the coin to—”
“Your Grace,” Bran heard Ser Podrick say. There was a mailed hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him out of his vision. “It’s time for supper.”
“Thank you,” Bran said trying to get used to the feeling of his own body again.
“Did you see anything important? Should I get the council?”
Bran shook his head and cast a glance at the kitchens. Pork pie. “Nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.”
Fin