Serials can be difficult things. You want to keep the fans you’ve acquired happy, regardless of whether you have five or five thousand or more, and you also want to keep your work from going stale as each old iteration gives rise to a new one. Many movies and games have fallen into the trap of doing ‘more of the same’ or removing the elements of the first title from the second in an effort to broaden the series’ appeal. I hope that the makers of movies and games are paying attention, because George RR Martin is a creative mind who gets serial iteration right, as evidenced in his latest entry in the Song of Ice and Fire series, A Dance With Dragons.
The novel takes readers back to the fictional land of Westeros, where summers last years and winter can last decades. Winter not only promises cold winds, dead crops and snowfalls several feet deep, but horrible creatures beyond count and the dead rising from their graves. Such things seem beyond the concerns of some of the people in Westeros, however, as noble Houses feud to seize control of the Iron Throne. Banners snap in the breeze and swords shine in sunlight as forces clash across the land. The War of Five Kings is all but over, yet conflict continues to rule in Westeros. Meanwhile, across the Narrow Sea, rumors of dragons and the liberation of slaves in the shadow of the ruined freehold of Valyria draws many to the Essos city of Meereen, as well as suitors for the hand of a queen quickly growing in legend as she struggles to maintain control over the change she’s wrought. And in the North of Westeros, on the titanic Wall that sheilds the land from the places where winter never ends, an untested leader remembers the words of the House where he was raised: Winter Is Coming…
There was some concern amongst fans before the release of A Dance With Dragons. It had been six years since the release of the previous book, A Feast For Crows. There’s also the fact that in A Feast For Crows, many of the point of view characters fans had come to love were conspicuously absent. Considering the cliffhanger way in which Martin had ended the third volume, A Storm Of Swords, it’s no wonder that many fans wondered what exactly Martin was up to. As it turns out, A Feast For Crows was merely the first half of a rather bold experiment in long-form storytelling.
One of the titular dragons.
Originally, Martin had intended to relate much of the story in A Feast For Crows and the first half of A Dance With Dragons as flashbacks during “meatier” bits of his saga. However, when he realized how daunting a task that would be to relate so much story without things becoming dull, he opted to tell the stories that needed to be told more or less in real time from the perspective of the involved characters. There was apparently a lot of story to tell, as this transitionary portion of the story as told by more established characters dominates the first half of A Dance With Dragons.
However, this move means that the events that have come before, first published six years ago, now have more depth and resonance. Narrative threads that may have felt as ‘left hanging’ are tied into greater portions of the overall story. In other words, Martin didn’t just publish a new book. He produced a novel that some how makes his previous novel a better one and, rather than letting it remain attached like a vestigial growth, folds it neatly into his ongoing, sprawling epic. This is, in my humble opinion, nothing short of literary genius.
Guess who still knows nothing.
Typically, this is about where I’d go over what I liked and didn’t like about this book itself. However, I’d rather not betray any spoilers. I will, instead, say simply this. Martin continues to demonstrate that he is a superlative storyteller, creating characters that feel very human and deep in the midst of a fantasy world at once familiar and rather strange. His story turns are bold and his plans will keep you guessing.
I have to say that fans new to the series or who got their introduction through the HBO series Game of Thrones should pick up at least a couple of the previous books. However, if you’re already part of those that follow the saga of Westeros and anticipate the coming of winter, there is no reason not to purchase A Dance with Dragons. It’s not only a worthy addition to this sprawling series of books, it’s one of the best.
Please note: All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this tale can and will deviate from series canon.
The Story So Far: It is Year 296 since Aegon’s Landing. Two minor Houses have come into contention: House Luxon, sworn to the Starks of Winterfell, and House Mortmund, sworn to the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. A savage turn of events and a tireless pursuit has revealed that Lord Mortmund had employed a Faceless Man, sent the assassin to slay noble heads of Westeros nobility, while thieves and scavengers collected Valyrian heirloom blades to keep for himself. While the Luxon forces stormed and razed the Mortmund keep, a bastard named Cadmon Storm recovered the blades and killed the Faceless Man. Victor Luxon, son of Lord Goddard, went with the bastard and John Nurem, steward of the House, to King’s Landing. At High Court they presented the blades of House Baratheon to Robert, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Following a decree that named Cadmon the trueborn son of Baelor Hightower of Oldtown, the trio proceeded down the Rose Road to Highgarden, continuing to distribute the stolen blades to their rightful owners…
He hated the South. He hated the heat. He hated the moisture. He hated the way the greens and yellows and reds of the feilds assaulted his eyes. He hated the stinging of pollen in his eyes and the way it left dust on his arms and armor. Most of all he hated the false smiles, the courtesies, the bowing and taking of knees and “m’lord” this and “m’lady” that. He missed the North, the biting vibrant cold breezes, the heft of his weapons and the comforting weight of armor on his shoulders.
He pushed John Nurem aside and set about adjusting his clothing himself. The steward bowed and muttered some sort of apology. Spineless toad. Victor appreciated all the merchant-turned-majordomo had done for House Luxon, but more often than not he just got in the way. He looked down at his sleeves, a dark blue fabric slashed to reveal the cloth-of-gold beneath, then tugged at the fine trousers of gray with their silver piping, tucked into polished black boots. The steward swept the ermine half-cloak around his shoulders, the cloth-of-gold lining catching the light from the hearth as Victor fastened the clasp, a golden acorn. Victor reached for his swordbelt and fastened it around his waist as the knock came at the door.
“They’re ready for us.”
“In a moment, Storm,” Victor snapped. He checked the hang and fit of his clothes, thanked the gods that nobody was around to stick him with any more pins, and threw open the door. Cadmon Storm, now recognized as a Hightower, stood just outside, dressed in his own finery, the hilt of the Veracity visible behind his left hip as he tugged on the white leather gloves he wore.
Royal decree or no, the stripling’s Storm to me. “Which way’s the solar?”
Cadmon gestured with a smile. “This way, my lord.”
“Yes, your lord, and don’t you forget it, bastard.” Victor had starting itching already. It was going to be a long afternoon. Despite the powerful stride he adopted to move through Highgarden to Mace Tyrell’s solar, Cadmon had no trouble keeping up. “My father did you a great boon by taking you in, considering you showed up at our gates with naught but a bastard’s name and some pretty words.”
“I’ve proven everything that I’ve said, have I not?” The bastard didn’t stop smiling. A Southron through and through. “We destroyed a potential enemy of not only your House, but the Lannisters as well, and Luxon’s growing in respect with every stolen blade it returns.”
“Just remember it’s Luxon doing it. Not you.”
“I doubt I could forget, considering how you constantly remind me.”
“And keep your distance. I won’t have you interrupting me this time.”
Cadmon placed a gloved hand over his slashed doublet. “Why, Victor, you wound me. I thought you of all people would appreciate the need to cut to the quick.”
“Not in front of the bloody king!” The insult still burned him. He’d been telling the story of how they’d come across the blades, in detail, leaving nothing out. He wanted no secrets before the king. He learned afterward that one of the small council, the pointy-beared whisp of a man everybody called Littlefinger, had started yawning. Cadmon had interrupted, kneeled before the king and laid out the Baratheon blades taken from the serial killer that had lived under the guise of a Lannister bannerman. The delivery had won them reknown throughout the Seven Kingdoms, and a letter from Tywin Lannister himself had called upon Robert to decree Cadmon the trueborn son of Baelor Hightower, but Victor wasn’t about to let the slight go unremarked.
“Just let me do the talking this time.”
“As long as you don’t do too much of it.”
Victor growled. “You try my patience, bastard.”
Cadmon shrugged, his only reply as their quick pace had brought them to the solar. He opened the door for Victor and gestured grandly for him to enter. Cadmon fell into step behind him. Sitting in a comfortable chair with the remnants of his breakfast in front of him, Lord Mace Tyrell, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South, wiped his hands on a napkin and gestured for them to approach. His daughter Margaery sat nearby, hands folded in her lap and smiling at Renly Baratheon, who sat nearby speaking with her quietly. Nearby, Mace’s son Loras looked on, the embroidery in his fine cloak and worked into the leather of his scabbard unsurprisngly showing various types of flowers. A slender woman with long silver hair and a dignified look smiled as they entered, walking past Victor to place a hand on Cadmon’s shoulder.
“Oh, my brother will be jealous. I get to see how handsome his son is before he even reaches Oldtown.”
“You must be my aunt Alerie.” Cadmon took her hand in his. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”
I’m going to be sick. “Lord Mace, I have no wish to overstay my welcome. May I present you with these blades of House Tyrell, taken from…”
Mace held up a meaty hand. “I did hear tell of most of this tale from my son Loras, and from Renly, when they arrived. May I see the blades?”
Victor knelt and laid out the bundle they’d made of the blades of Tyrell. Loras walked over to look down upon them as Mace leaned toward the opened canvas. He reached down and picked up the broadsword from the bunch, the central feature of its hilt being a golden rose. A matching dagger was beside it, which Ser Loras picked up.
“These were my father’s blades,” Mace said. “They said he’d fallen from a cliff, looking up and not minding where he was going. There was always something odd about that story.”
Victor nodded. “Regardless of how they came to be parted from him, they are now yours once again, Lord Mace.”
“And well I thank you for that. You do good service for your house, Luxon, and for that of your liege lord. I shall not forget it.”
Victor stood, adjusting the leather belt around his waist. He was eager to wrap this up and get into more comfortable clothes. Lord Mace invited his guests to dine with him that evening, which Victor accepted before he left the solar, leaving the bastard to speak with the woman from Oldtown.
“Victor, if I might have a word?”
He turned, to find the well-groomed Renly Baratheon following him into the corridor.
“I apologize for my brother’s brusque nature in King’s Landing. He’s so unflatteringly impatient during high court. You understand.”
“I do.” Victor shifted on his feet. “I took no offense.”
“It simply seemed unfair to extend the potential for knighthood to one such as Cadmon Hightower, and not do you the same courtesy.”
“What are you saying, my lord?”
“If you wished to squire for me, or perhaps Ser Loras, all you have to do is ask. You fought alongside us in the Greyjoy Rebellions. Your quality as a warrior is known. Why not add the reknown, respect and rewards of knighthood? What say you?”
Victor stared to Renly for a long moment. Then, taking a deep breath, he answered.
“I appreciate the offer, my lord, and I would be interested in squiring for a knight, but not for you, nor for Ser Loras.”
Renly blinked. “I beg your pardon? Why ever not?”
“You know why.”
The king’s brother narrowed his eyes. “I am attempting to extend you a courtey and opportunity, ser. You’re letting prejudice blind you.”
“The truly blind are those who still profess to love you while being ignorant of what you really are.”
“And what, exactly, am I?” Renly hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. It was one of the swords Cadmon had brought back from Mortmund’s ruin. Victor scowled and said no more, backing up a step and turning away.
Victor strode back to his quarters with haste, fueled by hatred. Was Renly simply trying to expand his collection of admirers? Victor didn’t think he was Renly’s type. He was burly where Ser Loras was slight, direct in speech where Ser Loras was circumspect. He was of the North, and Ser Loras of the South. Maybe the queer cock doesn’t discriminate, Victor thought bitterly. He slammed the door of the quarters behind him, which earned him a shriek from the bed chamber.
“Did… did it go well?”
The face of his wife poked out from the other room. Victor glared at her as he pulled the golden acorn open and yanked the ermine cloak from his shoulders.
“Lord Mace has kind things to say about House Luxon, now, giving us one less overt enemy in the South.”
“Oh, that must please you!” She moved to help him undress, her fingers slightly clumsier than those of John the house steward. She might have been on the homely side and not terribly bright, but she as at least a woman, and her hands on him working with his clothes didn’t make him so uncomfortable. “Tell me, was Lord Renly there? Or Ser Loras? Oh, he’s so elegant, with his floral armor and his…”
“Yes,” Victor hissed, exasperated. “He was there.”
Jaine giggled. “Oh, forgive me, my lord, he’s just so…”
“I know what he is. You owe me no apology.”
She responded by giggling more, especially when she was helping him out of his breeches. He sighed. Once again, the ship has left the dock with no one on board.
“Shall I help you relax, before we’re feasted by Lord Mace?”
“We have time, yes.” At least it’ll shut you up. Would that I could silence Renly or Ser Loras or that bloody bastard Storm as easily. He resolved not to think on those men any longer, however, as his wife began. Such thoughts would just be strange in this situation.
All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon.
My time in the House of Black and White that sits in Braavos taught me several things. I learned patience, for those days after I awakened in a small acolyte’s room were long and quiet. I learned how precious every moment is, considering how I’d simultaneously delivered a soul onto death and nearly fell into its arms myself. I learned that while I was recuperating in the temple of the Many-Faced God, the face of the weirwood of Storm’s End was the one that came to mind when I felt the need to pray. I learned to speak more languages, to listen to whispers, to watch how people moved and looked around when they spoke. And I learned the water dance from Mavek Kushahn, Third Sword of Braavos.
She took my dagger from me, letting me fight only with wooden swords. It wasn’t until I took her practice weapon from her hand that she returned it. That same day, I thanked the priests in the House of Black and White and, wearing the clothes of a bravo, hired myself as a deckhand and sellsword to a trading ship. So it was for years, before wanderings and adventures brought me to Pentos.
I was days from turning ten and seven, a man grown by Westrosi reckoning. I had taken scars and lives alike, and as I walked through the city to make my delivery I drew in the salty sea air and thought of how different it smelled from the spray of Storm’s End and the cold loam of Dragonstone. I didn’t miss them, precisely, but I knew they were the foundation upon which Cadmon Storm the bravo had been built.
I handed the wineseller his cask and took his money. I was counting it for the third time – just to be certain – when I bumped shoulders with a youth just a few years older than me. He had his hand gripped tightly around the wrist of a young girl who caught my eye. While the teen pulling her along called me a fool and to watch where I was going, I found myself staring, the image of her searing into my memory.
Her hair, caught in the breeze and sunlight, looked as if spun from a metal more precious that silver, more rare than gold. She was wearing a fine if somewhat insubstantial dress that was very much in keeping with the fashions of the upper-crust ladies of the Free Cities. What captured me, though, were her eyes. Not their color, though you don’t often see them the color of amethysts. No, it was the sadness. The longing. Though she was dressed in the manner of a daughter of wealth, she looked very much a prisoner.
A little voice in the back of my mind told me I would embarrass myself if she caught me gauping, and I tore my eyes away from the sight of her. Her escort, whoever he was, turned his eyes to me, eyes the same color as hers, and if looks could kill I would have dropped dead on the spot. Instead, I bit out an obscenity in Valyrian – another skill I’d refined in the House of Black and White. His eyes went wide and I winked at him, before he himself ran headlong into an oncoming traveler. I ducked out of sight before the drama unfolded any further.
There was something about that pair, a feeling in the back of my brain that coiled and writhed in a mix of uncertainty and excitement. Who had I just seen? Why did this notion of destiny poke at my heart? I tried to tell myself it didn’t matter. I had coin, and free time, and I knew what to do with both. Pentos had more than its share of taverns, and I had a favorite, the “Sea Lady’s Chamber”, a short walk from the docks.
The Chamber is a home away from the sea for sellsails, oarsmen, and shipwrights of all types. One at the bar was smiling and laughing with a pair of ladies, wearing a dark tunic with a strange device over his heart: an onion, embroidered in white.
It was a device I knew well.
The ladies were striking in their own right. The more flamboyant of the two was also the larger, a collection of curves and bright flashing gold hanging from belts and sashes. Her bright hoop earrings and bold-colored scarves on her head were a stark contrast to her dark skin. She didn’t look like one for fighting, but all the same, a jeweled scabbard holding a sickle-like dagger was prominent on the front of one of the many sashes around her waist.
Her companion was more slender, her curves more modest, the caramel of her skin subtly accented by her fashionable skirt, slit up to her hip to expose bare leg running to the boot that came to just below her knee. A gem flashed in her navel, set in a taut belly shown by the tied-off sleeveless shirt in the same sandy color as the skirt. Behind her cocked hips, I could see the hilt of a Braavosi blade. Her hair was long and ebony, braided with threads of silver woven through it. The only other decoration she wore was a slender silver chain that encircled the base of her neck, itself braided at the hollow of her throat and hanging down between her full breasts and into her shirt.
Again, the eyes got my attention. But they weren’t exotic, like the amethyst orbs I’d beheld earlier. No, these eyes were a stormy, expressive blue. Familiar eyes. Eyes I’d caught sight of in mirrors or polished glass from time to time.
Curious, intrigued, and perhaps a little aroused, I began to make my way over.
Three bravos burst into the Chamber behind me. I stepped to one side; I didn’t want to be seen as an obstacle to them. Not yet, at least.
“Dale Seaworth!” The bravo that called the name drew his blade. “You will come with us!”
Dale looked at the bravos, then his companions, then drank down the remnants of his wine. “Why would I do that?”
“Your ship has raided and taken the property of our employer.” It was the middle bravo who spoke now, his Westrosi Common slightly more refined. “We’ve come on behalf of our lady, Betharios of Braavos, to demand recompense.”
The slender woman set down her goblet and crossed her arms, the firelight reflecting from the studs of her fingerless gloves. “Dale. Have you been pirating?”
Dale shook his head. “The ships were carrying slaves towards Westeros. I turned them back.”
“Lies.” The bravo who hadn’t spoken yet, the largest one, had a voice like gravel being ground underfoot. “You kept the cargo of Betharios for yourself.”
People are not cargo, I wanted to say, but Dale beat me to it. “I daresay that people are not, in fact, cargo.”
“I know Betharios,” said the large woman, leaning on the bar. “She’s a bitch. I’m not surprised she sent dogs to do her dirty work.”
The first bravo spat. “We are no dogs!”
“And at least we are not pirates and thieves,” the second agreed. “Not like you. Now will you come with us or shall we draw your blood now?”
Dale got to his feet. People were quietly leaving the tavern or getting into a better position to watch. “I can’t leave. My ship departs with the tide. I need to be on it, you see, as I am her captain, and we have goods to take back to Westeros. Goods, I might add, that were not taken from the leaky boats of Betharios.”
“We are three.” The first bravo grinned, a smile missing a few teeth. “You are one. Odds are not good, pirate.”
“Learn to count.” The slender woman uncrossed her arms and moved, hips almost in a slither-like motion, to stand by Dale. “We are two.”
The grinning bravo moved his hand to his hilt. “I can count. And we still number more than you.”
“You there. Tall, dark, and ugly.” I stepped out of the crowd, lifting my chin to the big, stoic one. “We shall duel, bravo, you and I.”
He blinked at me. “You will stand for this Westrosi seadog?”
“Aye. Any seadog of Westeros nursed at the same bitch I did.”
Dale smiled. “The Narrow Sea’s a cold, hard one.”
The woman smiled, too. My heart might have skipped a beat.
“Enough talk!” The first bravo roared as he attacked. We paired off immediately: the first with Dale, the second with the woman, and the big one with me. I parried and gave ground. He was strong enough, but he lacked finesse. Dale was quick on his feet and had a Westrosi longsword in his hand before his bravo could get close enough to stick him. The woman, for her part, ducked and darted like a snake, and I read in her water dance a placid patience, moreso than any sort of fury or malice, as she looked for the perfect place and time to strike. I kept mine busy, moving around the tavern and letting him grow tired and stupid… well, more stupid than usual.
Sure enough, he over-extended his thrust and I took him in the chest, just below his heart. He slid back off of my blade and staggered, looking down at the wound in shock. I raised my blade to my face in salute, then turned to the other as he backed Dale into a corner. Dale wasn’t used to fighting water dancers, and while he was holding off the attacks, it was only matter of time before he was disarmed or worse. The other bravo saw me moving, and was about to shout a warning when the woman capitalized on the distraction, her thrust landing in his throat. Winking at her, I turned back to the first bravo, my left hand reaching for my dagger. Valyrian steel whispered through the air as I ducked low, slicing the tendons at his heel. His leg turned to rubber, but he somehow stayed upright, clearly well-trained enough to keep his balance despite the sudden handicap. The large bravo shocked me when he roared and came at with with a final burst of energy. Effortlessly, the woman spun into his path, the tip of her blade slashing his face. He stopped, mid-stride, even more shocked than before. A good shove from her put him down on the floorboards. He didn’t get back up.
Dale finished off his hobbled foe when the bravo pressed an unwise attack. He slapped the thin blade of his opponent aside with contempt, and cleaved the man’s neck down to the spine on the reverse stroke. The bravo bled all over his flamboyant clothing as he sank to his knees, then fell to one side. Dale cleaned his blade, nodding in my direction as the woman sidled up beside me.
“You made that a lot easier than it could have been, friends. Thank you.”
“Any family of Davos Seaworth is family of mine.”
“You know my father?”
“Quite well. This dagger was a gift from him. He helped me leave Westeros. I was in a place where bastards like me are seen the way a noble looks at a pile of horseshit he just stepped in.”
The woman was studying me intently at this point. She smiled, and again, the effect it had on me was undeniable. “I know a bit about being a bastard of the Seven Kingdoms. It’s a shame your experience was so negative.”
I shrugged. “I didn’t have the advantage of your charms.”
“Don’t go trying to seduce my first mate away from me!” The large woman walked over to us and laughed. “She’s far too much of an asset to the Pillowqueen.”
I knew that ship name. My face split into a huge grin.
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet the great Madrosa Saan!” I removed my hat and swept low in a bow. “I hear that business is treating you and your family well.”
Large dimples appeared as Madrosa smiled at me. “It is, young bravo, but you do have me at a bit of a disadvantage.”
“My name is Cadmon Storm. And, if I may, I find myself between jobs, and I’d be honored to be considered for your crew.”
Now the woman by my side was openly staring. “‘Storm.’ As in Storm’s End?”
I turned to her, blinking. “Yes. I was born there. My mother is…”
“Rhiannon Penrose.” She took my arm. “Walk with me.”
We left Dale Seaworth and Madrosa Saan watching us in confusion. I glanced over my shoulder, and I saw them exchange a look and a shrug. We walked across the street and down the docks, under a cloudless night littered with stars. The moonlight did fascinating things to the woman’s skin. I noticed, now, that she was closer to my age than I’d originally thought. She turned to me when we were alone.
“I know who your father is, Cadmon. Because he’s my father, too.”
She reached between her breasts, into her top, and drew out the end of the chain. At the end of it was a large ring. She placed it in my hand. It was heavy. It had a thick band and fit over the long finger of my left hand. Its central accent was not a gem, but a signet of white. It depicted a tall tower with a flame at the top. I studied it for a long moment, then looked up into her eyes.
“I didn’t know who he was until after I arrived in Braavos. My mother kept his identity secret, even to me.”
“My mother had no need for such deceptions.” She rested her hand on mine, the ring now shared between our skin. “My name is Sylvaria Sand, and I’m your half-sister.”
I suddenly felt a little abashed for feeling so attracted to her. She must have noticed this, because she flashed her alluring smile. Even with this new revelation, I couldn’t help but notice the fullness of her lips.
“No need to be so bashful, Cadmon. This isn’t Westeros, and we’re not intended for high seats. We should embrace what’s beautiful, not hide from it. My mother, herself a bastard, taught me that.”
I tabled that for the moment. Plenty of time for such talk later.
“I can’t help but feel there’s a reason we met tonight,” I said. “Both you and Dale Seaworth, in the same tavern at the same time, on a night I arrive there… Do you believe in fate, Sylvaria?”
She gently slid my finger free of the signet ring, but did not let go of my hand. “Sometimes, it’s hard to deny that there might be such a thing as fate. And meeting you, as delightful as it is, reminds me of home, and how much I miss it. The Water Palace, and my mother’s love, and my sisters. I should very much like to see them again.”
Something wells up in my heart. “My mother and I haven’t seen each other since I left.”
“It’s settled, then.” As boldly as she stepped up to fight for Dale Seaworth, my half-sister leaned into me and placed a warm, gentle kiss on my lips. “Let’s go home, Cadmon.”
He’s smiling because he just killed someone you love.
Writers are essential to modern entertainment. Without them there are no movies, no TV shows, no plays and no novels. Just about anybody can tell you who their favorite writer is and why. Look up those writers and they can tell you what inspires them, how they got started and what’s coming next. Some writers will even lay some ground rules for good writing, from creating good characters to avoiding contrivance in plotlines.
What people don’t tell you about being a writer is that it means bucking the system.
I should clarify my meaning. To write fiction is to buck the system. A lot of writers who struggle their way to success – and it is a struggle, don’t let anyone tell you different – are not what many in the common populace associate with ‘successful’ in their minds. They tend to think of CEOs in suits that cost more than some cars, movie stars with legendary good looks and politicians who decide the course our world takes.
Large men that look like Santa Claus’ evil twin brother? Housewives from Arizona? Unemployed British ladies?
Naaaah.
Writers are iconoclasts. They’re troublemakers. They stir things up because they ignite people’s imaginations. They encourage their audience to think, to interact, to take joy out of something that can become more than a mere distraction. Even the people who rise up in arms against a work or a franchise are engaged in an activity that excites them even if that excitement takes the form of indignant fury.
This is a good thing.
The CEO worries about the bottom line. The movie star worries about paparazzi. The world leaders worry about any one of the Four Horsemen riding up to his or her door.
The writer of fiction should worry about doing something new that wakes somebody up from their miasma of daily living.
Something worth noting about the writerly minds behind many of the thriving stories in our Kindles, TV screens, bookstores and theaters is that all of them are causing trouble in one form or another. They’re setting their work apart. They’re trying something new. They may not get it right and they might even piss some people off, but they’re making the attempt. And even if they don’t realize it, the people they’re making angry are engaging them in the creative process. There’s a lot of energy to be had in the debates, arguments, praise, criticism and fanatical gushing that comes in the wake of a new work that has the chops to make it through the slaughterhouse of rejection that stands between the new writer and the public eye. And the people that are talented, dedicated and lucky enough to make it through got there by not giving up on what they waned. They pushed back against the pressures of modern life. They crammed their passion into whatever cracks they could find. They made messes. They broke shit.
And in the end it paid off.
I want to be one of those troublemakers. Looking at the people who’ve made it, and how they’ve done it and what they’ve done it with, how could I not?
All characters, locations and events are copyright George RR Martin and the events that take place during this game can and will deviate from series canon.
Most of the children I grew up with barely knew Braavos existed.
There were a few who were curious about the lands across the Narrow Sea, but for the most part it was all about the gossip and impressing one’s parents. My mother had just been happy I was alive. I never felt the compulsion to impress anybody. Since I found the lessons dull and the company irritable, I was often running down books and maps I could get my hands on, and engaging the maesters with questions while the other children played.
So when I left Storm’s End at my mother’s behest, I got to see those lands in person. The years I spent aboard the Black Betha were happy ones. The sailors were happy to teach a cabin boy so willing to learn, and I learned to play their games of dice as much as I learned their knots. It couldn’t last forever — what does? — and a raven from Dragonstone caused Ser Davos to put me off of the Black Betha in Braavos. He explained it to me as well as he could.
“The Greyjoys have started a rebellion, and Lord Stannis needs me back home. It won’t be like the little skirmishes we’ve had here and there with pirates. It will be a brutal, extended business and I want you nowhere near it.”
“I can fight.” I was eleven. Of course I protested. “I can carry water to the wounded.”
“You’re a brave boy, Cadmon, but you’re still a boy. It’s important for you to stay safe. Stay in Braavos, stay close to the docks. I promise you, you won’t go any longer without word than I can help it. Maester Cressen will take my letters and send them across the Narrow Sea to you.”
“You could learn to write yourself, you know.”
Ser Davos made a face. “Such things are for smarter men. You’re smarter than I am already. Keep that up. Be smart, and stay here. Learn.”
I wasn’t happy about it. “You’re starting to sound like my mother.”
Kneeling in front of me, Davos smiled. “Good. She told me I was to keep you safe, and I’m glad I’m not failing her.” He took my hand, and placed a sheathed dagger in it. “Here. It’s something I got from a merchant in Lys, a long time ago. He said it was good luck.”
The sheath was simple wood, stained dark, and the handle was the same. With no hilt, cross-guard, or adornments, you could mistake it for some sort of short club, were it not for the small steel seam where handle and sheath met. Unable to resist, I tugged on the handle. The blade was short, no longer than my hand from wrist to fingertip, but it was curved, and there were dark ripples in the steel. I looked up at Ser Davos, eyes wide.
“You give me a knife and tell me I can’t fight?”
“Now, Cad —”
I didn’t hear anymore. I turned and ran from the deck of the ship, onto the docks, and didn’t look back.
I was resolved, in my childlike sense of justice, to resent Ser Davos right up until the first letter came from Dragonstone. Maester Cressen wrote the words of Ser Davos that told me of the Greyjoy Rebellion, of his lord Stannis storming the islands with Eddard Stark and how Jaime Lannister and Thoros of Myr had slain scores of men. It was the first of many, and I read it over and over in the candlelit nights on the docks. I even wrote some back, when I was able.
People need their ships tied up and cast off when they arrive or depart. They may not know where the nearest spice merchant or inn or whorehouse is. They might just need an extra pair of hands carrying cargo to its destination. I was one of several children who fulfilled these roles. They’re called Gulls on the Docks.
I spent the next couple years on those docks. As Ser Davos had bid me I learned all I could. I was starting to pick up words and phrases in Valyrian, listening to the news from the other Free Cities, watching the bravos duel one another. I sometimes bet a little of the money I had on the duels. The fact that I won more often that I lost was a sore spot with some of the other Gulls, especially a Tyroshi boy named Symuril.
“That was utter shit.” Sym kicked a stone away as we walked back to the docks following a nasty duel. He was a dark-haired boy but he’d gotten half of it painted blue in the Tyroshi style. “Ilastus shouldn’t have fallen for that last feint. He’d seen it before.”
“But his blood was up. He wanted to split Timon like a ripe melon. He ended up taking the split himself, but I understand why he attacked so aggressively.”
“Feh. It still shouldn’t have happened.”
“It was going to. Ilastus was hot-headed, moreso than most bravos. Timon knew this and used it. That’s how fights are. It doesn’t change the fact that you owe me ten.”
Sym glared at me. “It was a cheap win, damn close to cheating, and I don’t owe you anything.”
I walked to stand in front of him. “You owe me. Pay me.”
Symuril was older than me by at least one name day. I was close to my twelfth when this happened. He sneered at me, his green-brown eyes full of childish conviction, and poked my chest with a finger. “Timon’s a cheat and a liar. I bet fans of his aren’t any different. And I don’t pay money to cheats and liars.”
It was stupid of me to throw the first punch. Yet that’s what I did. As much as it had been what he’d wanted, Symuril was surprised by it. He responded in kind, though, and we were suddenly on the ground, tussling in the gutter. Ser Davos, Storm’s End and my mother were another world, and in that moment I was a young bravo dueling with an upstart from another Free City because he’d impinged my honor and, frankly, I didn’t like him all that much. We punched, kicked, bit and wrestled until I ended up on top of him, punching his face with all the strength I had.
I don’t know where his stiletto came from. But it was a slender little blade that stuck in my side. It was an intense pain, which made me scream, a feeling of intense heat washing over my belly and side as the blood flowed. I grabbed his wrist with my left hand, and he glared at me as he tried to pull his blade free. I reached for my own weapon, tucked in my belt at the small of my back. The gift from Ser Davos. While it was small, I’d practiced with it a bit at night. I’d learned it was curved so you could draw it in a certain way, and that’s exactly what I did.
I was surprised by how much Symuril bled when I opened his neck.
I’d seen game slaughtered before, and during a pirate skirmish one of Davos’ men had lost a leg. Still, seeing such things is not the same as getting blood squirted on your face yourself because you slit someone’s throat. The Tyroshi boy’s eyes went wide and he gasped, both hands reaching for his throat, his stiletto forgotten in my side. I stayed on top of him and pulled the thin blade out of me, putting my hand down over the wound. I felt him kicking under me, each passing moment making the motions more feeble. His eyes never left mine as blood gushed from under his hands and oozed from his mouth. Even when he stopped moving entirely, and his bowels emptied themselves into his stylish trousers, his green-brown eyes shouted their accusations. I was crying when I rolled off of his corpse and limped away.
I don’t know how I got as far as I did. I remember dragging myself up the steps towards the doors, one of weirwood and one of ebony. My nostils were full of the smell of incense.
The doors parted as the last of my strength left me. I remember gentle hands on my body, and an old man’s voice speaking in Valyrian, two words I recognized.
