The Silence was a vessel of nightmares. Her single mast was draped with pitch-black sails that seemed to swallow the morning light, and her hull was painted a deep, visceral red, a shade chosen specifically to conceal the blood that inevitably splattered upon her decks. At the prow stood the figurehead of an iron maiden, her waist impossibly slender and her iron hair soaked by the spray. Her eyes, mother-of-pearl inlays, glistened with a cold, predatory light.
Dozens of blood-red oars dipped into the churning water in perfect unison. As Euron Greyjoy climbed down the cliffs of Pyke and leaped onto the deck, the oars accelerated, driving the Silence toward the safety of the northern islands.
Euron had no intention of dying with Pyke City. He had traveled the world, from the frozen wastes of Ib to the shadow-shrouded spires of Asshai. He had walked the smoking ruins of Valyria and returned with armor of Valyrian steel and the Dragonbinder horn. His survival was not a matter of luck; it was a matter of ruthless, practiced escape.
He looked back at the receding towers of his home, his one blue eye narrowed. "One day," he hissed to the wind, "I will return with a storm that drowns the world."
No one answered. The crew of the Silence were all mutes, their tongues harvested by their King's own hand. Only a short, hairy creature, a half-breed ape from Sothoryos hopped frantically on the forecastle, pointing toward the horizon.
Euron turned. Out of a sudden, unnatural fog, a forest of masts emerged.
Banners whipped in the salt wind: the Merman of White Harbor, the Sunburst of Karstark, the Rearing Bear of Mormont.
"Change course! East to Harlaw!" Euron barked. "Let Asha play at being King if she can break this net!"
The Silence carved a desperate arc, but every turn met another wall of mist and steel. To the west, the Crowned Stag and the Burning Heart blocked the path. To the north, the Silver Seahorse of Velaryon and the Red Crab of Celtigar waited.
High atop a siege tower on the shore, Lord Wyman Manderly slapped his fleshy thigh, his breathing heavy from the climb. "Stannis, your priestess was right. He ran like a rat for the drain."
Stannis Baratheon didn't respond. He had asked Melisandre for a prophecy. She hadn't seen a Kraken; she had seen a blue-eyed raven fleeing in terror. In response, Stannis had sacrificed several dozen high-born Ironborn prisoners to buy the banks of fog that now strangled Euron's escape.
Euron Greyjoy realized the trap was absolute. He climbed the mast of the Silence, his blue eye burning with a manic, final madness. He looked at the surrounding armada and laughed—a sound of pure, jagged insanity.
Then, he jumped.
Euron plunged into the azure sea. As the water swallowed him, he forced his consciousness to detach, diving deep into the cold, crushing abyss. This was how he had first found the Kraken—at the threshold of drowning. He sought the monster now, desperate for a tide of tentacles to rise and crush his enemies.
The darkness deepened. The pressure became a pair of giant hands, squeezing his soul. Hallucinations flickered: kaleidoscopic fires and screaming shadows.
Just a little deeper, he thought. The Kraken is waiting.
Two massive, familiar eyes lit up in the gloom. Ten long tentacles stirred the silt of the ocean floor. Euron rushed forward with his final ounce of spiritual strength.
Suddenly, the ocean was gone.
Euron found himself standing in a gargantuan hollow tree. Countless ravens perched upon twisted vines, their cawing a deafening, rhythmic chant.
A figure emerged from the shadows of the roots. It was a young man, powerfully built, with deep red hair and a crown of nine swords resting upon his brow. One eye was grey and resilient; the other was ancient and world-weary. A massive direwolf, white as the moon, stood at his side.
"Robb Stark?" Euron gasped, his voice a hollow echo. "I saw you die... I orchestrated your end..."
The figure spoke with the majesty of a mountain. "I am Robb Stark. And I am the Three-Eyed Raven. This sea is mine, Crow's Eye. Begone."
The direwolf let out a howl that shattered Euron's consciousness. The darkness rushed back in. Euron's unconscious body, stripped of its magic and its madness, drifted deeper and deeper into the lightless abyss, falling forever into the silence.
In Meereen, the "Wizard's" rule had brought a different kind of peace.
Eddard Karstark stood upon the back of Viserion. The dragon had grown at a prodigious rate, fueled by the hundreds of sheep Eddard had provided. Today, for the first time, Eddard wore no armor. He had eaten lightly and left his heavy equipment behind.
"Take off!" Eddard commanded.
With a localized gale that sent dust swirling through Daznak's Pit, Viserion ascended. Eddard closed his eyes against the G-force, and when he opened them, Meereen was a toy city of bronze and brick.
The Pale Mare was fading. Eddard's "Sanitation Dictatorship" had worked. The infected were quarantined, the dead were burned, and the city's wells were guarded by iron-masked veterans. The residents, once terrified, now cheered as the white dragon circled the Great Pyramid.
Eddard looked down, feeling the dragon's instincts thrumming in his own blood. He smelled the "delicious" scent of woodsmoke and felt the predatory urge to snatch a horse from the plains below. He fought the dragon's mind, maintaining his own identity through the link.
Suddenly, Viserion's behavior changed. He twitched his nose, letting out a soft, spoiled hum. He began to whine with joy, his silver-white wings beating harder as he banked toward the Great Grass Sea.
Eddard sensed it too. A heat on the horizon.
A black dot emerged from the white clouds. It grew larger, revealing a wingspan of over twenty-five feet. The beast was a shimmering slab of black jade with blood-red horns and eyes.
Drogon.
Eddard raised a hand to shield his eyes. Riding behind the black dragon's head was a girl. She was nearly naked, her skin bronzed by the sun of the Dothraki Sea. Her silver hair was a short, downy fuzz, barely half an inch long.
Daenerys Targaryen saw the silver dragon approaching. She was puzzled to see Viserion free, but her heart leaped with a mother's relief. Then, as the dragons drew closer, she saw the rider.
He was not a Targaryen. He was a man with a hairless, smooth head and piercing grey-blue eyes that held the coldness of a winter storm. He wore a robe embroidered with a golden sunburst that seemed to glow with its own internal light.
The "Mother of Dragons" and the "Winter Wizard" stared at one another across the sky, the wind of their meeting carrying the scent of ice and fire.
[System Notification: The Great Meeting: Ice meets Fire.]
[Achievement Unlocked: Dragon Rider.]
Plz Drop Some Power Stones.
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