Chapter 11: The Serpent's Coil Unwinds, The Dragon's Price in Transit
Leaving Asshai was like shrugging off a shroud woven from ancient dread and palpable sorcery. The oppressive atmosphere, the greasy black stone that seemed to drink the very light, the constant, unsettling awareness of unseen powers – Torrhen, as Vorlag the scholar, felt an almost physical lightening as the dilapidated hulk of The Serpent's Coil receded behind him, and he made his way through the pre-dawn twilight towards the cacophonous, reeking docks. He moved with the quiet, purposeful gait of a man who knew precisely where he was going and why, his gaze missing nothing, his senses, still amplified by the lingering effects of the 'Clarity of the Void' and his own innate watchfulness, cataloging every cloaked figure, every shadowed alleyway.
He did not seek passage on any of the larger merchant cogs or hulking carracks bound for the more prominent Free Cities. Such vessels, while perhaps safer from the elements, were also more likely to carry passengers who might ask inconvenient questions, or customs officials, even in lawless Asshai, who might possess an unwelcome curiosity about a lone Tyroshi scholar with unusually heavy baggage. Instead, his inquiries over the past few days, conducted with extreme discretion in the dockside taverns where whispers were traded as readily as illicit goods, had led him to a battered, salt-stained trading brigantine named the Shadowlark. Its captain, a grim-faced, scarred Myrishman named Malo Jeyne, had a reputation for carrying any cargo, to any destination, provided the price was right and no questions were asked. His ship was small, fast, and looked like it had weathered a thousand storms and twice as many desperate encounters. Perfect.
The negotiation with Captain Malo was brief and conducted in a low murmur in the cramped, smoky confines of a dockside den that reeked of stale ale and unidentifiable Essosi spices. Vorlag offered a sum in ancient, pure silver coins that made the Myrishman's one good eye widen almost imperceptibly. Passage west, as far as the Basilisk Isles, with the option to continue to Qarth or even further if the winds and… inclinations… allowed. No questions about his person or his three carefully guarded weirwood cylinders. Malo Jeyne, a man whose face was a roadmap of hard living and moral ambiguity, simply grunted his assent, named an exorbitant but manageable price for such discretion, and told Vorlag to be aboard before the tide turned.
The Shadowlark slipped out of Asshai's black harbor as the bruised eye of its sun finally began to bleed over the horizon, casting no warmth, only a deeper shade of despair upon the cursed city. Torrhen stood on the pitching deck, cloaked and inconspicuous among the rough, multilingual crew, the three weirwood cylinders strapped securely across his chest beneath his outer robes, their weight a constant, precious burden. He watched the cyclopean architecture of Asshai fade into the perpetual gloom, a profound sense of relief warring with the gnawing anxiety of the immense journey still ahead. He had the eggs. Now, he had to get them through half a world of dangers.
The journey through the Jade Sea was initially uneventful, if deeply uncomfortable. The Shadowlark was no pleasure barge. It stank of bilge water, unwashed bodies, and whatever dubious cargo Malo Jeyne had crammed into its hold. Vorlag kept to himself, spending most of his time in the cramped, airless space allotted to him, ostensibly poring over mundane charts and astronomical tables he'd brought to maintain his scholarly facade. In reality, he was meticulously monitoring the dragon eggs. He would periodically unseal the weirwood containers in the dead of night, when the ship was quietest, checking their temperature with a small, sensitive alchemical thermometer Flamel had designed, ensuring the specially treated lamb's wool lining remained dry and that the lead shielding was intact. The faint warmth emanating from the eggs was constant, a reassuring sign of their dormant vitality. He could also feel their subtle magical aura, a thrumming potential that he carefully kept dampened with his will and the enchantments woven into the containers.
His assassin's senses remained on high alert. He trusted no one on board. The crew were a motley collection of hard-bitten Essosi sailors, their loyalties likely extending no further than Captain Malo's coin purse. He ate little of the ship's questionable rations, supplementing his diet with dried fruits, hard biscuits, and carefully purified water he had brought himself. He slept in short, watchful bursts, a dagger always within reach. Flamel's knowledge of poisons and their antidotes was extensive; he subtly tested his food and drink whenever possible, his alchemically enhanced senses detecting any unusual bitterness or foreign substance.
The first true test came as they navigated the treacherous straits near the island of Marahai, a notorious haven for pirates who preyed on the Jade Sea shipping lanes. A flotilla of swift, black-sailed corsair vessels, their decks bristling with armed men, emerged from a hidden cove, clearly intending to intercept the Shadowlark.
Captain Malo Jeyne cursed fluently in six languages and ordered his men to prepare for a fight, though their small brigantine was clearly outmatched. Torrhen, as Vorlag, remained outwardly calm, but his mind raced. He had no desire to engage in a pitched battle that could endanger his precious cargo. He needed a way to deter the pirates, or to allow the Shadowlark to escape.
Drawing on Flamel's knowledge of pyrotechnics and illusion, he discreetly retrieved several small, specially prepared pellets from a hidden pouch. These were not explosive in a conventional sense, but designed to produce intense, disorienting flashes of light and acrid, choking smoke when ignited. As the lead pirate vessel drew closer, its grappling hooks ready, Vorlag, under the cover of the ensuing chaos on deck, managed to hurl three of the pellets onto the pirate ship's crowded forecastle.
The effect was instantaneous and dramatic. With a series of sharp cracks, the pellets erupted into blinding flashes of magnesium-white light, followed by billowing clouds of thick, greenish-yellow smoke that smelled like brimstone and burning hair. Screams of pain and confusion arose from the pirate vessel. Men clawed at their eyes, stumbled into each other, their attack momentarily faltering.
In that brief window of opportunity, Captain Malo, a skilled if ruthless navigator, seized his chance. He barked orders, and the Shadowlark, its sails expertly trimmed, veered sharply, catching a favorable gust of wind and surging away from the disoriented corsairs. Two other pirate ships gave chase, but the Shadowlark was surprisingly swift, and Malo knew these waters like the back of his scarred hand, weaving through hidden shoals and narrow channels where the larger pirate vessels dared not follow.
Vorlag had retreated to the shadows near the stern, his contribution unnoticed in the general mêlée. Captain Malo shot him a single, appraising look later, his one good eye narrowed, but said nothing. The Myrishman was clearly a man who valued results over explanations. The incident, however, served as a stark reminder of the constant dangers.
As they sailed further west, past the fabled shores of Yi Ti and towards the Basilisk Isles, the atmosphere on board grew more tense. The Basilisk Isles were infamous, a nest of pirates, slavers, and practitioners of dark, bloody magics. Ships often vanished without a trace in these waters. Torrhen redoubled his vigilance. He spent more time on deck, ostensibly observing the stars for his navigational studies, but in reality, scanning the horizon, his senses, augmented by his internal Stark abilities that connected him to the natural world, often picking up the distant presence of other ships or unusual weather patterns before the ship's lookouts did.
One moonless night, as they lay becalmed in a humid, oppressive stillness south of the Isle of Tears, Torrhen's warging ability, though severely limited by the lack of suitable animal hosts at sea, suddenly flared. He felt a brief, terrifying connection with a large shark circling deep beneath the ship, its mind a vortex of primal hunger and a strange, unsettling awareness of something else in the depths – something vast, ancient, and malevolent. The sensation was fleeting, but it left him with a profound sense of unease. The seas of Essos hid more than just pirates.
He used Flamel's knowledge of subtle weather manipulation – not true storm-calling, but the ability to sense and subtly influence air currents by focusing his will and using minor alchemical catalysts released into the wind – to help Captain Malo anticipate and navigate through several treacherous squalls that could have easily crippled their small vessel. Malo, though he never commented directly, began to treat the quiet Tyroshi scholar with a new level of grudging respect, often seeking his opinion on weather patterns or potential hazards.
The journey was a relentless drain on Torrhen's mental and physical reserves. The constant need for vigilance, the weight of his secret, the isolation, the poor food, the endless motion of the ship – it was a far cry from the austere but ordered life of Winterfell. Flamel's ancient mind provided a deep well of endurance, but even he felt the strain. He missed the feel of solid earth beneath his feet, the scent of pine and snow, the silent companionship of the Winterfell godswood. His greendreams, when they came, were troubled and fragmented, filled with images of fire, ice, and the mocking laughter of shadows.
After what felt like an eternity, but was likely closer to four grueling months, the Shadowlark finally limped into the relatively safer waters of the Summer Sea, having successfully navigated the worst of the Basilisk Isles, thanks in no small part to Vorlag's discreet assistance and Captain Malo's desperate skill. Torrhen paid Malo the agreed-upon sum, plus a generous bonus for his… discretion, and disembarked at a bustling, chaotic port on the coast of the Disputed Lands, a place called Vebber, known for its mercenaries, its slave markets, and its complete lack of allegiance to any king or magister. It was a dangerous, lawless place, but it offered anonymity and opportunities for onward travel.
From Vebber, after a week spent recuperating and gathering intelligence in the guise of a scholar seeking passage, he managed to buy his way onto a heavily armed Qartheen merchant galley, the Ivory Wind, bound for Pentos. The journey was less perilous than the voyage through the Jade Sea, but still fraught with tension. He was now closer to Westeros, closer to potential discovery. He maintained his Vorlag persona flawlessly, his quiet, bookish demeanor a perfect camouflage for the warrior-alchemist lord beneath.
The arrival in Pentos felt like stepping back into a semblance of civilization, albeit an Essosi one. The familiar sights and sounds of one of the great Free Cities, though still alien compared to the North, were a welcome change after the horrors of Asshai and the lawless frontiers of the east. He made his way through the crowded, sun-baked streets to a discreet address in the manse district, the headquarters of Ilyrio Motts' vast trading empire.
Ilyrio himself – or rather, his current descendant, a shrewd, corpulent man also named Ilyrio, who possessed his ancestor's sharp mind and unwavering loyalty to the Stark gold that had enriched his family for two generations – greeted 'Vorlag' in a private, heavily guarded chamber. The Pentoshi merchant's eyes, small and bright like a pig's, widened almost imperceptibly as Vorlag, after ensuring their complete privacy, finally shed his disguise and revealed himself as Torrhen Stark.
"My Lord Stark," Ilyrio breathed, bowing low, a mixture of awe and trepidation on his face. "By the black goat of Qohor, I had almost given you up for lost! The whispers from the East… they were not encouraging."
"The East is not a hospitable land, Ilyrio," Torrhen said, his voice regaining its familiar Northern cadence, though it was hoarse from disuse. "But the venture was… successful." He gestured to the three weirwood cylinders he carefully placed on a nearby table.
Ilyrio stared at them, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of greed and fear. "The… the dragon's tears?"
"Indeed," Torrhen confirmed. "Three of them. Intact. And, I believe, viable."
The Pentoshi merchant licked his lips. "This is… this changes everything, my Lord. Such power… The Targaryens themselves would…"
"The Targaryens will know nothing," Torrhen cut him off, his voice like ice. "No one will know. Your discretion, as always, is paramount, Ilyrio. The continued prosperity of your house depends on it."
"Of course, my Lord Stark! My lips are sealed as the grave," Ilyrio stammered, clearly understanding the implied threat beneath the polite words. "What are your further instructions? How can I assist in your… return?"
Torrhen spent the next few days in Ilyrio's well-appointed manse, recovering from the rigors of his journey and meticulously planning the final, most dangerous leg: smuggling the dragon eggs into the North itself. He needed a ship, utterly reliable, untraceable, and capable of navigating the treacherous autumn seas around Westeros to a secluded landing spot on the Northern coast, far from prying eyes at White Harbor or any other established port.
He also received Ilyrio's updates on the situation in Westeros. King Maegor's war against the Faith Militant continued unabated, his cruelty escalating. The realm was on edge. The North, however, remained relatively quiet under Cregan's interim command, though Ilyrio's agents reported that Torrhen's prolonged 'hunt' was beginning to raise some hushed questions among the more restless Northern lords, and perhaps even a flicker of interest from Maegor's spies in King's Landing. Time was of the essence.
Ilyrio, using his vast network and resources, managed to procure exactly what Torrhen needed: a small, swift, unmarked cog, built for speed and stealth, captained by a grim, elderly Summer Islander named Kojja, a woman renowned for her uncanny navigational skills and her absolute discretion, her loyalty bought with a chest of pure gold. The ship, renamed the Winter's Breath for this specific voyage, would be stocked with provisions and disguised as a simple Northern trading vessel returning from a far-flung voyage.
As Torrhen prepared to depart Pentos, the three weirwood cylinders now carefully concealed within specially constructed, lead-lined crates marked as 'geological samples' for Lord Stark's scholarly pursuits, he felt a profound sense of accomplishment mixed with an equally profound weariness. He had faced the darkest shadows of the world and emerged with the seeds of unimaginable power. He had outwitted pirates, navigated treacherous seas, and dealt with sorcerers. The assassin and the alchemist within him had been tested to their limits.
But the journey was not yet over. The final stretch, back to the cold, familiar embrace of the North, was fraught with its own perils. And then, the true work would begin: awakening the fire within the stone, and binding it to the blood of the wolf. The price of dragons, he knew, was only just beginning to be tallied.