Dance with Dragons

The night was saturated with the smell of man. A skinchanger, dying in a crude hut beyond the Wall, slipped into the skin of his wolf and tasted the hunt one last time. Through the eyes of his pack, he saw the world in shades of grey, scent, and blood. But as his human life guttered out, his spirit reached for a new vessel, only to be torn apart in a storm of agony and madness. For a moment, his soul became one with the frozen forest, seeing through the carved red eyes of a weirwood tree. He watched a demented woman, blind and bloodied, dance beneath the moon. He saw the cold creeping in, shadows with blue eyes moving through the snows, and among them, a thing that had once been a woman he knew, her eyes now burning with a pale, unholy light.

At the Wall, Jon Snow, the nine-hundred-and-ninety-eighth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, was haunted by his own wolf dreams. His new command was a bed of ice and thorns. King Stannis Baratheon was an unwelcome guest, demanding castles, men, and fealty Jon could not give. The wildlings, shattered and starving, huddled in their thousands, a problem he could not ignore. And from the south, whispers of war and the fall of his own house echoed like ghosts. “Kill the boy,” the old maester had advised him, “and let the man be born.” Jon made his choices, each one harder than the last, each one earning him more enemies within his own ranks. He watched as the king's red priestess burned the man they called Mance Rayder, a gruesome spectacle of royal justice that settled nothing.

The true test came with the winter snows. Jon opened the gates of the Wall to the free folk, offering them passage and land in the Gift in exchange for peace and their strength against the coming dark. His brothers in black saw only betrayal. They saw a Lord Commander who favored wildling savages over his own sworn men. “For the Watch,” they muttered in the shadows, their resentment curdling into treason. When a desperate letter arrived, seemingly from Ramsay Bolton, threatening the Watch and claiming his sister, Jon made his final, fateful choice. He would ride south. But the knives were already drawn in the cold, dark yard. As he fell, bleeding into the snow, the last thing he heard was the whisper of his steward, “For the Watch.”

Across the Narrow Sea, Daenerys Targaryen learned a bitter lesson: it is easier to conquer than to rule. Meereen was a knot of intrigue she could not untangle. The Sons of the Harpy, assassins cloaked in shadow, bled her city one freedman at a time, leaving the mark of a bloody harpy on the walls. Her dragons, the children of her heart, had grown wild and dangerous. After one killed a farmer's daughter, she chained two of them in the darkness beneath her great pyramid, a choice that felt like chaining a part of her own soul. Drogon, the largest and fiercest, escaped her grasp entirely, a black terror in the skies. She was a queen, but her throne was built on dust and death.

Surrounded by whispers and plots, she was pressed from all sides to take a husband to secure her rule. Hizdahr zo Loraq, a wealthy Ghiscari nobleman, promised peace in exchange for her hand. “I want ninety days and ninety nights with no more murders,” she told him. “Give me that, and I will consider it.” As the bodies stopped falling, she kept her word, sealing a loveless peace with a political marriage. To celebrate, she reopened the great fighting pits. But the blood and the roar of the crowd drew an uninvited guest. As chaos erupted in the pit, a shadow fell over the arena, and the air filled with a sound like the cracking of a thousand whips. Drogon had returned. Amidst fire and screams, she climbed onto his back, and the great black dragon carried her away from her city, her crown, and her compromises, into the vast emptiness of the Dothraki sea.

Tyrion Lannister crossed the Narrow Sea drowning in a cask of wine and self-loathing. Smuggled out of King's Landing by Varys after murdering his own father, he found himself in the ornate manse of Illyrio Mopatis in Pentos, a gilded cage from which he saw no escape. The world had become a grotesque jest, and he its fool. He was a kinslayer, a kingslayer, a creature of twisted appetites and a sharp tongue, with nowhere left to go. But the Spider and the cheese merchant had plans for him. They sent him on another journey, down the great river Rhoyne on a poleboat named the *Shy Maid*, in the company of a grim sellsword called Griff and his promising son.

The journey down the river was a passage through a world of ghosts and ruins. They drifted through the Sorrows, a fog-shrouded city of the dead where men turned to stone, and Tyrion barely escaped its grey kiss. But the true danger was not in the water, but on the boat itself. The boy, “Young Griff,” was no sellsword's son. In a game of cyvasse, Tyrion unraveled the secret: the boy was Aegon Targaryen, the infant prince supposedly murdered during the Sack of King's Landing, spirited away and raised in secret to reclaim his father's throne. His path was meant to lead east, to join with his aunt Daenerys and her dragons. But Tyrion, with a tongue as sharp as Valyrian steel, planted a different idea. “Go west, not east,” he urged. “Westeros is ripe for the taking. Let your aunt come to you.” His counsel set a new war in motion, but before he could see its fruits, he was seized by a ghost from Daenerys's own past: the disgraced knight Jorah Mormont, who promised to deliver the dwarf to his queen.

While the great players moved across the board, others faced their own grim destinies. Ser Davos Seaworth, the Onion Knight, was sent by Stannis to win the allegiance of White Harbor. He found the city's lord, Wyman Manderly, seemingly in league with the Freys, the very men who had murdered his king. For his loyalty to Stannis, Davos was condemned to death, his head and hands ordered to be mounted on the city walls. In Meereen, the Dornish prince Quentyn Martell, having crossed half the world to claim Daenerys's hand in marriage and been politely refused, made a desperate bid for glory. He tried to tame one of her captive dragons. His last word was a single, breathy, “Oh,” as dragonfire consumed him.

In the cold halls of Winterfell, a creature named Reek, who once was Theon Greyjoy, was given a task by his tormentor, Ramsay Bolton: to deliver Moat Cailin from the ironborn. He succeeded, only to see his kinsmen flayed and displayed on pikes. He was then forced to bear witness as Ramsay prepared to marry a girl pretending to be Arya Stark, securing the Bolton claim to the North. And far beyond the Wall, in a cave of weirwood roots, Brandon Stark finally found the three-eyed crow, a withered man fused to a throne of roots. He would never walk again, the ancient being told him, but he would fly. Winter had come, and with it, the pieces were set for a final, terrible dance.