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There was a girl sitting on the statue.

Barristan Selmy could not say how long she had been there, crouched beneath the legs of Blessed Baelor, but the view she had was near unrivalled.

The plinth she knelt on was painted marble, a wide base of stone that supported the carved likeness of the king the Great Sept was named for. A trail of blood smears snaked up the side of the stone leading to where the girl was, and he wondered if she had been forced to defend such a prized place. The crowd was as unruly as Selmy had seen in all his years in King's Landing, it was no great leap to imagine them fighting a child just for the chance of a better spot.

The smallfolk were oft quick to turn to savagery when tensions arose within the noble class, doubly so when such tensions were made public. News of the Lannister coup had trickled down to the rest of the city quickly, and all manner of rumour surrounding King Robert's death and the Lord Hand's fall had emerged soon after.

Some blamed Lord Stark, others Lord Renly given his midnight flight from the city. Ser Barristan heard men claim the king had been poisoned, though by Lord Varys or Her Grace Queen Cersei, none could be certain.

There had been some truth mixed in, as there always was when rumours abound. News of Janos Slynt's promotion and details of the hunting mishap had reached the commons, but whether Robert had been killed by a boar or killed whilst eating boar was still being hotly debated in pot-shops and winesinks all across King's Landing.

One fact that had eluded the stories thus far was that of the Kingsguard knight who'd borne witness to the death of his third king. A man just as culpable for the tragedy as the boar was.

Outlived three kings and dismissed by the fourth. It was bitter knowledge. The fifth shall be my last, he vowed, and, if the gods are good, my greatest.

He took what comfort he could from the thought. Rhaegar would have bested them all had he taken his father's crown, Ser Barristan knew. He could only hope his old friend's heir was half so worthy.

Selmy had made the choice whilst gathering his belongings from White Sword Tower after his dismissal. He now knew that taking Robert's pardon had been a mistake, and the only way to find his redemption was to fight and die in service to the true king.

Much and more had happened since he'd arrived at that decision. Ser Barristan had fought his way out of the city only to return again, hidden amongst the smallfolk fleeing from the war. His future lay waiting in the harbour, but something in the sound of the Great Sept's bells had drawn him up to the crest of Visenya's Hill.

The girl's face was hidden from where Selmy stood within the crowded plaza. Matted brown hair hung limp in the heat, and a well-made cloak pooled about her where she crouched, a small hand gripping tight to the leg of the Septon King.

Her head had not moved an inch since Ser Barristan had spotted her, eyes seemingly fixed on the congregation gathered outside the doors of the Great Sept of Baelor. The girl was a beacon of calm above a roiling sea, as still as the statue she clung to.

KA-DING KA-DING KA-DING! KA-DING KA-DING KA-DING! KA-DING KA-DING KA-DING!

The sound of pealing bells rolled out like thunder from the seven slender towers, echoing across the pale stone plaza. Ser Barristan had to content himself with a place in the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the city, crammed into the white marble square like fish in a barrel.

Each head was turned towards the Great Sept, every word passed in excited tones spoke of who and what and why, when and where and how. It was not often that the royal court opened themselves up so willingly to the masses of King's Landing.

Selmy knew their faces well. Flatterers and fools, traitors and turncloaks, cravens and cowards. Each one was more unworthy than the last, stood in a crowd of their own about the doors of the Sept.

The boy stood in the centre, shining in crimson and gold. He was smirking now, just as he had been in the throne room. That same self-satisfied look was a common one upon the marble steps. And why not? Ser Barristan thought ruefully. They've won their damned tilt.

By King Joffrey's side was his mother the queen, resplendent in her mourning blacks. Both mother and son had conspired in Ser Barristan's dismissal, and his replacement lurked behind them, burnt face betraying nothing.

Sandor Clegane was a fearsome fighter, and few men could hope to match his strength or ferocity with a blade, but he had never been knighted. It was not for a lack of skill - Clegane could have earned his spurs half-a-hundred times by now - no, it seemed the man was opposed to the very notion of knighthood.

Ser Barristan grimaced at the thought. How can one such as that serve on the Kingsguard? he asked himself with incredulity. Yet another slight to add to the rest ...

The Hound's white cloak was matched by four others on the steps. Selmy watched his former brothers with contempt, recalling their hollow laughter, still. Littlefinger stood smug as ever, he who had started the mockery. Varys glided past him on slippered feet, now dressed in a robe of pale damask.

How long had I stood amongst them, oblivious? he wondered. Only now that I'm cast aside can I see them for what they always were ...

A fellow outcast was stood, or rather held, in front of them.

Ser Barristan had never seen him look worse.

Lord Eddard Stark had aged a decade in the dungeons. The cast placed on his broken leg was grey and cracked, his face was gaunt, his eyes were hollow. It pained Selmy to look upon the man. You failed him, just like all the rest.

In his mind, he had played over the events in the throne room countless times, thinking of what he'd do differently if the gods gave him a second chance, but Ser Barristan knew it would never change the truth. At the crucial moment, he had froze, and the consequence of his inaction was now standing in front of the Sept of Baelor, looking haggard as a corpse.

The bells slowed to silence, and the crowd soon followed. Lord Eddard lifted his head to speak, but the man's words were as feeble as he looked, and they did not carry far. The crowd voiced their displeasure, and Slynt prodded the Hand with the butt of his spear, and Stark began again.

"I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King," he said, loud enough to carry across the plaza, "and I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men."

The crowd erupted around him. Some threw taunts, others obscenities. Ser Barristan's mouth tightened at the noise, and he drew the hood of his cloak up further.

Lord Eddard raised his voice further still, straining to be heard above the din. "I betrayed the faith of my king and the trust of my friend, Robert. I swore to defend and protect his children, yet before his blood was cold, I plotted to depose and murder his son and seize the throne for myself. Let the High Septon and Baelor the Beloved and the Seven bear witness to the truth I have to say: Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Ser Barristan didn't see who threw the first stone that struck Lord Eddard, his eyes had been on the girl beneath the statue, who had shrieked in horror when Stark was hit. She looked back at the crowd around her, a panicked fear lay deep in her grey eyes. She was a child, no older than ten, with a gaunt face covered in dirt.

For a moment, their eyes met. Recognition came like a hail of stones.

One struck a gold cloak, the other his commander's shield. Blood trickled down Ned Stark's face as tears did the same from the eyes of his daughter.

Arya Stark's hand slid beneath her cloak and found Needle in its sheath. She tightened her fingers around the grip, squeezing as hard as she had ever squeezed anything. Please, gods, keep him safe, she prayed. Don't let them hurt my father.

"She has the look," Selmy muttered beneath his breath. Brown hair, grey eyes, long face. The girl was a Stark, there was no mistaking that.

As Ser Barristan could recall, Lady Arya had disappeared from the Red Keep when the Lannister coup had been underway. Only Ser Meryn Trant had returned from the men Queen Cersei had sent to collect the girl from her lessons. Trant had given the barest details of what had unfolded when Ser Barristan had asked him, his own shame at failing to capture the girl had held his tongue like as not. The guards who'd accompanied him had all been slain, along with the Braavosi swordsman Lord Stark had hired to teach his daughter.

Somehow, Lady Arya had managed to get from the small hall within the Tower of the Hand inside the Red Keep, all the way across the city to the Great Sept of Baelor, all on her own. Queen Cersei had forbade anyone to enter or leave the keep on that dark and bloody day, and yet this child had seemingly evaded gold cloaks and guardsmen alike to make her escape.

The queer similarities in their two stories was enough to give Selmy pause. We are fugitives both, running for our lives from the blades at our backs. He wondered if he'd slept beneath the same pot-shop roof as the girl during his time on the streets, utterly oblivious. King's Landing was teeming with dirt-covered children, it was little surprise the Stark girl had evaded notice for this long.

He caught himself in his wonderings. Fool. You forget yourself. You forget your goals. What part does this girl have in your new purpose? What part does this girl have in your redemption?

Back atop the Sept, the High Septon knelt before Joffrey and his mother. "As we sin, so do we suffer," he intoned, in a deep swelling voice much louder than Lord Stark's. "This man has confessed his crimes in the sight of gods and men, here in this holy place." Rainbows danced about his head as he lifted his hands in entreaty. "The gods are just, yet Blessed Baelor taught us that they are also merciful. What shall be done with this traitor, Your Grace?"

Traitor. The word stuck in his craw. Said the raven to the crow, and you best put yourself amongst the flock, old man. You stood by and watched it all happen.

Ser Barristan looked from Lord Eddard's dull, hollow eyes to his daughter's glassy ones, red and puffy with tears. Did Brandon weep when he watched his father burn? He could not recall, or perhaps did not want to. All men knew of Aerys's madness - the name Mad King was well-used and well-earned - but it could only truly be understood if one had seen it first hand.

Why did you come here, my lord? This city has brought nothing but woe to your family. Two generations of House Stark had been devoured by the red brick walls of the capital. He looked back to where the girl was crouched. Must a third befall such a fate? He had failed Rickard, he had failed Brandon, he had failed Eddard, must he add Arya to that sorry list?

No, he thought, grip tightening on his wooden staff. Foolish old man. No!

A thousand voices were screaming, but Arya never heard them. Prince Joffrey ... no, King Joffrey ... stepped out from behind the shields of his Kingsguard. "My mother bids me let Lord Eddard take the black, and Lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father." He looked straight at Sansa then, and smiled, and for a moment Arya thought that the gods had heard her prayer, until Joffrey turned back to the crowd and said, "But they have the soft hearts of women. So long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head!"

The crowd roared, and Arya felt the statue of Baelor rock as they surged against it. The High Septon clutched at the king's cape, and Varys came rushing over waving his arms, and even the queen was saying something to him, but Joffrey shook his head.

Lords and knights moved aside as he stepped through, tall and fleshless, a skeleton in iron mail, the King’s Justice. Dimly, as if from far off, Arya heard her sister scream. Sansa had fallen to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Ser Ilyn Payne climbed the steps of the pulpit.

Arya wriggled between Baelor’s feet and threw herself into the crowd, drawing Needle. She landed on a man in a butcher’s apron, knocking him to the ground. Immediately, someone slammed into her back, and she almost went down herself. Bodies closed in around her, stumbling and pushing, trampling on the poor butcher. Arya slashed at them with Needle.

High atop the pulpit, Ser Ilyn Payne gestured and the knight in black-and-gold gave a command. The gold cloaks flung Lord Eddard to the marble, with his head and chest out over the edge.

“You there!” an angry voice shouted at Arya, but she bowled past, shoving people aside, squirming between them, slamming into anyone in her way. She saw a man in a black cloak appear and vanish as soon as he came, swallowed whole by the roiling sea of people. A hand fumbled at her leg, and she hacked at it, kicked at shins. A woman stumbled and Arya ran up her back, cutting to both sides, but it was no good, no good, there were too many people, no sooner did she make a hole than it closed again. Someone buffeted her aside. She could still hear Sansa screaming.

Ser Ilyn drew a two-handed greatsword from the scabbard on his back. As he lifted the blade above his head, sunlight seemed to ripple and dance down the dark metal, glinting off an edge sharper than any razor. Ice, she thought, he has Ice! Her tears streamed down her face, blinding her.

Ser Barristan reached out a hand and caught the girl by the arm, pulling her back towards him and knocking the bravo’s blade from her grip. She was spun face-to-face with him, and he watched recognition spread across her features. “You’re …”

“A foolish old man come to save you, child.” She was a scrawny little thing, all limbs and elbows, Ser Barristan held her up with ease. “We’re leaving,” he said, and began to pull her away, but the girl resisted.

“No!” It was some trick by the queen, Arya knew, perhaps they’d hoped she wouldn’t recognise the old knight, but she had. He will take you to Queen Cersei , her panicked thoughts told her. Arya had to get away from him and towards her father. Ser Ilyn has Ice! I must move quick, or else … 

The crowd went quiet as they struggled, Arya turned back but the old knight pulled her close, snapping her head away from the Sept.

“That is no sight for you to see,” he said, voice strained from effort.

“I … I … I …” Her tears were blurring Ser Barristan’s stern features, but his words were clear as day.

“Don’t look!”

 

 

The crowd was dispersing slowly, all their fury and frenzy gone now the day's entertainment was done.

"Come along, child," Barristan Selmy said, as gently as he could manage. "Let us waste no more time here."

The girl did as he asked, following him without further complaint. Ser Barristan had been slightly concerned he may have had to carry her out of the plaza, thankfully she did not seem utterly lost to despair.

My life is over, Arya Stark thought dully as the old knight led her away from the Great Sept. He had not bound her, he did not even so much as hold her by the arm as they walked. Arya knew that was odd, Queen Cersei would not want her to escape again, but it all seemed so very unimportant.

"I knew you as soon as I saw your face," Ser Barristan explained, "you have your father's look, you know. The Stark look. Your uncle had it, too, and your aunt." He glanced over his shoulder to where the girl followed him still, her grey eyes were downcast. He went on, "Even a few days on the streets couldn't mask it. I've been on the streets for near as long, hence my rather dishevelled appearance. I've never kept a beard so long as this," he chuckled, "you must have thought me some old beggar when first you saw me."

Arya realised later than she ought have that the old knight was talking to her. Why exactly he was telling her of his days spent living on the streets of the capital, she could not say. Surely it was not necessary for him to leave the Red Keep and sleep in the gutters and winesinks to capture her? Arya could not think of a good reason why he would lie, either. He already had her captive, it was not as though he needed to convince her to come with him.

That little voice would not keep quiet, Arya sorely wished it would. She wanted to sit and cry, to scream, to stop and never get up again. She kept moving, instead, feeling as if she were floating above her own body, watching as the old knight led them off the busy street and into an alleyway.

Arya blinked and found herself face to face with the old knight. He gave her a sombre look, and sighed. "I am sorry, child. Your father deserved better. Ah, but it does naught to dwell on such things." Ser Barristan glanced uneasily at the crowd moving past, when he looked back his face seemed different. "Arya Stark and Barristan Selmy will never leave this city alive, but a grandfather and his grandson ..."

"I'm not a boy," Arya muttered.

"Aye, no more than I'm a kindly old grandfather, yet were you to look upon the two of us, it is no great leap." Ser Barristan gestured towards himself. "I wear no plate and mail, no sword at my hip, there is no white cloak flowing from my shoulders. Those are the trappings of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard." He tugged at the plain woollen robes he wore. "These are the clothes of a weary old man seeking passage from the city, so that is what I shall be." Ser Barristan looked down at what Arya was wearing. "I fear you are in much the same boat as I, child."

She glanced down at her filthy garb. She hardly looked like a highborn lady, days spent on the streets of King's Landing had left her looking haggard, tired, and thoroughly unimportant.

He placed a hand on her shoulder. "We must both needs play our parts if we are to leave the city unharmed."

For a moment, Arya was lost, until Syrio's lessons came back to her. Look with your eyes. Ser Barristan was a runaway, a fugitive just like her. "Why does the queen want you?"

The old knight's face hardened. "Apparently I am too old to protect that son of hers, so they dismissed me from my Kingsguard service, and made some piddling offer of a keep on the coast I could live out the rest of my shameful days in. Suffice it to say they did not take too kindly to my refusal." Ser Barristan drew himself up. "I have spent too long in service to unworthy leaders, child. I intend to fix that."

This was no trap, Arya realised, this was a rescue. He means to spirit me from the city! 

Her mind jolted at the revelation, and she asked, "How long have you been on the streets?" Arya was trying to piece together what had happened since she had left the Red Keep. Had the Lannisters gone after more than just her father's men?

"I was dismissed soon after your father was arrested."

She imagined her father being carried off like some common criminal, the thought made her heart ache with pain and rage, and Arya had to bite her lip to stop the tears. When she spoke, her voice was all thick and croaky. "So you weren't with him when ...

Selmy had to look away. Gods ... "No, child, I was." He could not meet her gaze. "I was not strong enough, I see that now. Mayhaps if ... Well, that is why I rescued you from the Sept. Your lord father was a good man, my lady, and perhaps this one task I can do for him."

Arya searched his pale eyes and saw the guilt there. She wanted to scream at him, hit him, anything, but all she did was look. He could've saved him, she thought to herself. That's what true knights do, isn't it? Save those in need? Arya recalled how Ser Meryn had come to her, a knight of the Kingsguard. Perhaps that was what had happened to her father, another Lannister ambush. They'd planned it all ahead of time. Counting up the death and destruction like a steward counts up coppers.

When she spoke again, her voice was quiet. "Will you take me home, ser?" It was the only question Arya wanted an answer to.

"There is a ship awaiting me - ah, awaiting us," he corrected. "It sails to Gulltown, due north from here. We shall not be asea for long."

"Gulltown? That's in the Vale, isn't it?"

"Indeed, but first we must cross the city undisturbed. Our ship is docked at the riverfront wharfs beyond the Street of Steel." Ser Barristan pulled Arya to her feet. She could feel the strength of him, even with his years. "There is one other thing, child," the old knight said, his tone apologetic. "I am sorry, but ... the gold cloaks must not find us. You saw what that leader of theirs did, we can take no chances."

He reached for his belt and produced a blade. Panic overcame Arya in her shock. "No, you can't!" She tried to squirm away. Stupid girl! Stupid! He is the queen's creature after all!

The old knight kept control despite her best efforts, mumbling some lame apology as he lifted the blade. Arya held her breath, waiting for the metal to do its job, but Ser Barristan went for her hair, instead. Slowly, she opened her eyes, chunks of it were being carried back towards Baelor's Sept by the wind.

Arya lifted her hands up once the old knight had sheathed the small blade. It was not quite so bad as she had feared, her hair now fell to her ears rather than below her neck. Ser Barristan was no barber, but he was gentle enough, she supposed.

"Another part of your costume, child." Selmy only hoped others would not make her as quickly as he had. Standing, he surveyed the alleyway. "Come, it's best we be off."

"Hail, old man," a voice called out from the street. "Return to your homes, you and the lad."

A group of gold cloaks made their way from the crowd's edge towards them, one man had a shortsword still in its scabbard, the other a double-edged axe.

Something about the pair had caught Lanner's attention, a sense for trouble he'd honed over years spent patrolling the streets of his city.

"Of course," said the old man. "I was only comforting the lad after the chop, was all."

Cley looked down his nose at the boy. "No need to work yourself up over a traitor's death, lad. He got what he deserved."

The boy scrunched up his face. "He wasn't-"

"-Worked up," the old man finished, placing a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "He's never seen a killing before, y'see. He just needed a moment before we headed back, which we’ll be doing now.”

The elder glanced briefly at the boy, Lanner did the same. What were you about to say, I wonder?

Cley chuckled. “There’s far worse deaths to be found in King’s Landing than that, boy. The pair o’ you best clear off, Her Grace wants the Sept empty, now.”

The old man nodded. “Come along, boy. Let’s get you home.”

“A moment,” said Lanner. “Your names?”

The pair shared a look. “Arstan,” the old man replied. “This here is my grandson …”

“... ‘Arry,” the boy finished.

Lanner watched them both for a moment. A boy and an old man … He could feel Cley glancing at him uneasily, but he ignored him.

“We need the Sept cleared, Lann, that means these two as well.”

He paid his partner no mind. “We’re seeking the whereabouts of two individuals of great interest to the queen. A highborn girl of ten and a white-haired knight.”

Arya watched the gold cloak from beneath her freshly-cut fringe. Calm as still water. He doesn’t know. Not fully. Not yet. She kept her eyes low in response, trusting in the old knight’s talk of costumes.

“Apologies, friend,” Ser Barristan replied, “not met anyone so important as that, I’m sure I’d recall such a thing if I had.” He gave a weak smile.

“What about the lad?” Lanner still recalled the insolence that had flashed across his grey eyes.

The gold cloak’s eyes were brown and small and made Arya’s skin crawl. Fear cuts deeper than swords, Syrio’s voice told her. “Nothing,” she heard herself say. “We just came down to the Great Sept when granddad heard the bells, I thought another king had died.”

Lanner dismissed them with a nod. Waste of my bloody time. “Move along.”

"Too close," the old knight said under his breath once they were back within the foot traffic.

"They didn't recognise us," Arya added.

He mumbled agreement. “But the next pair might. I’d sooner not do that dance again. Keep your head down, child. Let us make haste for the harbour.”

The two of them wound through the cobbled streets of King’s Landing silently, it all felt like some queer dream to Arya, a terrible one that she hoped she might wake from at any moment. Yet that relief never came, and Arya’s legs kept moving even if her heart was gone.

After a while, they came upon what had to be the Street of Steel. There were smiths working as far as the eye could see, the sound of metal striking metal filled the air alongside the indistinct chatter of smith, apprentice, and customer alike. Her eyes stuck on one smith who was chuckling heartily over some jape, and she almost walked head first into a man - no, a boy, whose chest was broad and muscled - carrying a great helm shaped after a bull.

The boy's blue eyes fixed hers, and he brushed his black hair aside. "Watch where you're going," he grumbled.

Arya staggered back a step, flushed. "Uh, sorry."

His companion pushed the boy forwards. "Come along, we're late as it is."

They left without another word, and she looked back at the storefronts. If the news of her father’s death had reached them, they did not seem to care, and Arya hated them for that. She went to grip Needle, imagining putting the sword through their laughing faces, but it was not where she’d had it last in her belt. The memory of it spilling from her hand hit Arya like a blade in the back, and the panic set in.

The old knight seemed to sense her troubles and turned back to her. Arya began to speak, but her eyes were drawn to the object in Ser Barristan’s calloused hands. He held Needle balanced between two fingers, the castle-forged steel glinted off the sunlight.

“I had wondered when you’d notice it was missing,” Selmy said with a chuckle. “Hardly an appropriate ornament for a highborn lady’s wardrobe.”

Arya thought for a moment. “I’m an orphan boy, not a highborn lady.”

The old knight gave her a knowing smile. He flipped Needle around, presenting its hilt to Arya. “And can the orphan boy wield this?”

She took Needle by the hilt. “He can.”

Ser Barristan's blue eyes did not leave the sword. “I hope you’re right, we may have need of your bravo’s blade soon enough.” He rose to his feet. “Come, child, not much further, now.”

When at last they reached the harbour, she followed the old knight along the wharf in silence, it was far busier now than before. Her heart stopped in her throat when she noticed the Wind Witch still in anchor on the third pier. If news of their ‘lord’ had reached them, they did not seem terribly upset. Arya could not seem to tear her eyes away from the men. She clenched Needle tightly as they passed. The guards never so much as looked up.

“There she is,” Ser Barristan said as they approached the fifth pier. “She is no breath-taking galleon, I’ll grant you, but she’ll get us where we need to go.”

The Young Lady was smaller than the Wind Witch. Arya had never much cared for ships, and the trading galley was doing little to change that. That was for the best, she knew, ships like that one come and go from the city every day.

They approached the small crew that manned the vessel, they were Essosi, likely here with trade from the Free Cities. A few stood chatting idly in a foreign tongue, they stopped as the pair approached.

“You are the knight?” asked one of the crewmen, his accent thick with the speech of Essos.

“I am,” Ser Barristan said.

The crewman turned to the ship and shouted something up in his own language. A moment later, a figure emerged from the side of the ship with dark brown hair and tanned skin. He made his way down the plank and onto the pier and gave them both a cold look. “Greetings, Westerosi. I am Vyaro, captain of this ship.”

“Well met, captain. May we board?”

Vyaro did not move. Does he take me for an utter fool? thought the captain. “I was told to give passage to an old white knight, not some stinking peasant boy.”

Arya’s anger flared, and she stepped forwards. “I don’t stink! You take that back!”

The captain raised a dark eyebrow at her outcry. Ser Barristan placed a large hand on her back. “The boy will cause you no trouble, I swear it.”

The promise fell on deaf ears. “This was not part of the deal, ser knight. What is this boy to you, anyhow?”

A chance to make amends, Selmy thought. “The child has no father, and nowhere else to go.”

Vyaro waved a dismissive hand. “Pah! So do all the rest. This is not some charity mission, old man.”

“I made a promise to protect him.”

“Your promise is shit to me. I have my orders.”

Barristan gave Arya’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I can’t imagine your benefactor would appreciate you returning to him empty handed. I believe I am still of some passing importance to him.” The old knight clacked his staff against the planks of the pier. “I do not board your ship without the child,” he declared, voice forged of true steel.

Gods, I hate this stinking city. Vyaro fixed his gaze on the orphan. “What is your name, boy-of-great-importance?”

“‘Arry,” she answered back.

He pondered her response as he stroked his dark beard. “Just so. ‘Arry the peasant boy will stay out of trouble, he will be as quiet as a temple mouse, yes?”

Arya nodded her head. “Good.” The captain looked over them once more. “Very well, welcome aboard the Young Lady.”

They followed the captain across the gangplank and onto his ship. Vyaro gestured to a staircase that led below deck, “You sleep down there. No one bothers you unless you bother them.” He looked at Arya. “Try not to get in the way.”

The captain put his fingers to his mouth and let out a shrill whistle, causing Arya to flinch at the sudden sound. “We have our special cargo onboard,” he announced to his crew. “Let us set sail for the greatest city in all the world.”

“You hear that, boys?” said one of the sailors. “The captain’s taking us north to Braavos at last!”

Vyaro clipped the man about the head. “Fool! Jest that way in Nako’s hearing and we’ll be set off course for months!” He looked about at his crew, waiting for their laughter to fade. “We sail for Pentos, gentlemen. Where else?”

The call brought out a loud cheer from the crewmen on the pier, and the galley spurred into life, with men going every which way. Arya’s mind was spinning as quick as the sailors moved. Pentos? But I thought …

She looked at Ser Barristan, the man who had saved her from the queen’s clutches, the finest knight in all the Seven Kingdoms, and saw the guilt in his pale blue eyes.

Arya took a shaky, steadying breath, and ran.

 

 

The Pentoshi sailor cursed like, well, a sailor.

His face was red from the effort, his biceps bulging where they gripped tight to the rope. “Whoreson!” roared the man as he readjusted his stance. “Bloody whoreson!”

“Shut it!” came the shout from overtop of the ship’s railing. “I can’t concentrate with all that filth flying out of your mouth.”

The sailor growled, and spat, “If you got off your damned arse once in a while, I wouldn’t have to curse so fucking much!”

“Almost finished,” said the carpenter, who the men all called Planks, “then you can haul my damned arse up and go back to buggery!”

Despite himself, the sailor laughed, scratched and raspy. “Ah, damn you, Planks.”

From what Barristan Selmy could gather, some damage had been done to the right side of the Young Lady’s hull, and had required inspection and possible repairs that could not wait till they made port. Captain Vyaro had charged his ship’s carpenter with the task, and the oarsman Pepo with the job of lowering him down to do it. There was precious little entertainment to be had onboard, so Ser Barristan had welcomed the sight, content to watch it all unfold from a safe distance.

Soon enough, Pepo had Planks safely onboard once more, and the two were chatting like old friends despite the vitriol both were spewing moments before.

“Well?” asked the captain, after striding over. “How is my ship?”

Planks patted the railing. “She’ll be fine, captain, just a scratch.”

A success story, Selmy thought as he watched on, we have had precious few of them of late.

Captain Vyaro was scowling even now, but Ser Barristan knew he was not truly angry. He had seen true anger on the man, and he’d happily never see it again.

That thrice-damned girl, he thought ruefully. Selmy could see her from where he stood. Perched high atop the rigging, she was watching the events closely.

Arya must have sensed his eyes on her, for she looked down at Ser Barristan for a moment before clambering out of his eyesight. The girl had learnt the skill quickly under the tutelage of Gyllaro, the head rigger, and now seemed more monkey than maiden when she chose to climb the ropes, something she did often as it kept her far away from him.

Thrice-damned girl, and thrice-damned captain. If Vyaro had just kept his mouth shut … Just long enough till we were out to sea, and I could’ve explained things to her …

Selmy let out a sigh. The horse, or rather, girl, had bolted, it did not good to fret over the stable door. As soon as mention of Pentos had been made, she ran. Ser Barristan was too slow to react, and the sprightly little thing had raced back down the gangplank and past the crew before any of the Pentoshi could even cry out.

The mess of the harbour had slowed her escape somewhat, but were it not for the girl racing headfirst into a gold cloak out on patrol, they’d have lost her for good. The guard’s partner was not best pleased with the urchin who’d knocked his companion flat on his rump, and managed to keep the child in place long enough for Vyaro and Ser Barristan to arrive. The girl had been white as a sheet when they got there, and considering Slynt’s part in her father’s death, Selmy could little blame her.

They claimed ownership for the ‘boy’, and sat through a rather brusque warning about what could happen to the child for ‘assaulting’ an officer of the crown. A few coins across the palm from Vyaro ended any more talk of punishments.

“Your boy is feral,” Vyaro said once they had returned to the Young Lady. “How am I to know he won’t attack my crewmen next? He cannot come aboard. Let him roam the streets of this city, he will be much happier there.”

“I have told you my stance already, captain, this little stunt has not changed that. The boy was scared, that is all.”

Vyaro grumbled. “You are a senile old man. What the magister wants with you I shall never know.” The captain sighed. “The boy will pay back the coins I spent to keep him out of a dungeon.”

“He will,” Ser Barristan said.

 Arya had not said a word since then, her time had been spent working aboard the ship (scrubbing decks mostly) and hiding from him. Selmy saw the child often enough, but never alone, so he still had not been able to explain himself to her. He suspected the choice was deliberate on her part, though the knowledge made the effort no less infuriating.

Mayhaps I have made a mistake , he thought, as he leant against the railing, watching the clouds pass by overhead. She is a wild, wanton thing, and has no part in my plans. Ser Barristan had found her slashing at the crowd outside the Sept with that sword of hers, and speaking of, he had never once seen a highborn girl carrying a blade. 

There was a chance she had found it on the streets, no doubt stolen from some poorly watched smithy, yet when Selmy had examined it up close, he knew it was castle-forged by a talented smith. Had it been a gift from Lord Eddard? Ser Barristan had not envied the late lord the task of raising the girl, but had he actually encouraged her nature? They said his sister was much the same - willful, and stubborn to a fault.

The origins of the bravo’s blade mattered little and less for the nonce, Ser Barristan had to decide what was to be done with her. They were at sea, bound for Pentos. The mere mention of the city twisted his gut. The girl had asked for a destination, Selmy told himself. She never would have come aboard if she had known the truth.

He shook his head loose of the thoughts. It did no good for Arya to be stuck in Essos, and Ser Barristan had no intention of taking her with him. The girl must be returned safely to her own, and that meant another ship. She may reach Gulltown after all. They would dock in the Pentos harbour, and Selmy would place her on the first boat bound for the town. She would reveal herself to Lord Grafton, and he would be honour-bound to take Lady Arya to her aunt.

As he planned, Ser Barristan stroked his beard, still unused to the feel of it on his face. The plan has merit, he mused, and White Harbour would work if Gulltown is not an option. She would be back in the North, and just a short ride from Winterfell.

First, he must speak with her, explain himself if he was able, and hopefully gain her consent to the plan. She must trust me once more, even if she may never come to like me. You’re a knight, Selmy, you best start acting like one.

The captain’s quarters were plainly decorated, with the space within taken up by chests, closets, and trunks. Vyaro was not a man of extravagance, his job was just that to him. A knock on his door drew his eye from his work.

“Enter.”

His door swung open to reveal the old knight, adorned in his plain woollen robes and clutching a long, wooden staff. Vyaro stared coldly at the man, wishing anyone, truly anyone, else had come to speak with him.

“Good morrow, captain,” said the knight.

The captain placed his quill back in its pot, and folded his fingers together. “It was, ser knight.”

The old knight gave a tight smile. “I am afraid I have another favour to ask of you.”

Ungrateful old Westerosi … Vyaro let out a laugh as cold as his stare. “And what would this favour be, exactly?”

“It is about the boy.”

The captain wondered how much trouble it would earn him to have him and the boy tossed overboard. “You are pushing your luck and my patience, ser knight. What would you have of me?”

“Your quarters, and not for long, I hope. I need to speak with the child in private, yet he is proving … elusive. He knows his way around your galley, I can assure you.”

“I should hope so, given he works aboard it.” He sighed. “Tell me, why would I do this thing for you? I am fulfilling the orders I was paid for, I am taking you and your boy across the narrow sea, I have even chased him down and paid for his freedom.” Vyaro shook his head. “I wash my hands with him and you. Leave me in peace.”

The old knight did not, in fact, leave him in peace. “Did our mutual friend tell you much about your, as you so eloquently put, ‘special cargo’?”

The captain pinched at the bridge of his nose, feeling an ache building behind his eyes. “You are an old Westerosi knight of some interest, you are dressed in plain clothes with a large white beard carrying a stick. You are also, as my orders never spoke of, extremely annoying. I will not ask you again to leave.”

“My name,” the old knight said, with a strange flicker in his pale blue eyes, “is Ser Barristan Selmy. I was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, the Hero of Duskendale. I slew Maelys Blackfyre in single combat, many call me the greatest sword in the Seven Kingdoms, more call me Barristan the Bold. Your employer has great need of me in Essos, and I intend to fulfill that need. I am sure the captain who sailed me safely to Pentos and proved extremely accommodating during the trip will receive a handsome reward for his efforts.”

Liar , had been Vyaro’s first thought, more instinct than anything, but the longer he watched the man, the less certain he became. He had heard of Barristan the Bold, and knew of his many exploits. 

Vyaro had assumed the news of his dismissal was mere rumour, for who would willingly dismiss a man of such stature from their court? And, if one did something so foolish, why in all the fiery hells would they let him leave alive? Yet here the man claimed to stand, hired by the fat magister to play some part in one of his myriad schemes. 

There was every possibility the man was nothing but a chancer, using the talk of the dismissal to earn some small acclaim for himself. Looking at him now, he looked more lecher than legend, though Vyaro supposed one was a deal more likely to be stopped by the gold cloaks than the other.

If that was truly the case, the man had managed to trick the magister and his agents across the narrow sea, a feat so fanciful Vyaro had to dismiss it out of hand. No, he thought, certain now, he tells the truth.

That presented its own set of options, for the old knight was utterly at his mercy. Ransom was the first thought that popped into the captain’s head. They could take Ser Barristan captive and gain a good deal of gold from Magister Mopatis for his safe return, for the boy king he had fled from would no doubt offer a healthy amount to see him brought back. 

That, of course, would be the end of their dealings with the fat man, something Vyaro was in no great hurry to bring about. Gold was nice, but it meant little when you were spending the rest of your days in the Prince’s dungeons. No, they would deliver the man safely, he knew, and perhaps his talk of rewards would come to fruition. That would be gold enough for him.

Ser Barristan was safe, but he had taken an almighty risk revealing himself like that, and for what? Some boy? It remained the sole wrinkle the captain could not smooth out, and that bothered him, but Vyaro knew there was nothing for it.

He cleared his throat, rose from his desk, and held out a hand. “It is a deal, then.”

Relief washed over the old knight’s wrinkled face, and he shook his hand. “Thank you, captain.”

“Save your good words for the magister, ser knight,” Vyaro said as he moved around his desk and opened his cabin’s door. “Morro! Where is the peasant boy?” He left the room without another word.

Selmy stood alone in the captain’s cabin, that same feeling he got on the eve of battle had crept upon him now. After a short while that felt like a lifetime, the door swung open and Vyaro walked in, followed by a small familiar figure. Arya looked at him with surprise.

Vyaro stood by the door. “Be quick, Barristan the Bold.” He shut it with a bang, Ser Barristan heard the thunk of a lock clicking a moment after.

Arya Stark’s heart dropped as realisation dawned on her. She turned away from the old knight and tried the door, but to no avail, it was locked tight. She turned back to face him. Him, who had lied to her, tricked her, forced her aboard a boat bound for Pentos, and now trapped her in this cabin to say gods know what.

“Arya,” he said, blue eyes full of pity and guilt and other things that made her want to claw them out. “It … It is good to see you again.” Ser Barristan gestured to a wooden chair near the door. “Please, sit.”

She looked at it for a moment, thought of disobeying purely for the sake of it, but, knowing she was trapped in here for how long she did not know, chose to take it.

“You know, you can be very difficult to pin down when you want to be, hence the strange local.” He chuckled. “I had less trouble from the Kingswood Brotherhood!”

Arya moved her hand across the varnished arm of the chair. “Ah, so this is another trick pulled on me.”

Ser Barristan’s smile turned nervous. “Done only to make amends for the first one.”

The girl rolled her eyes and went quiet again. Selmy hesitated for a moment, before he said, “I hear Pentos is rather breath-taking. They have manses larger than most castles in Westeros.”

She gave him a withering look well beyond her years. “Are we planning on sight-seeing when we get there?”

Her mocking tone made him flinch. “I … I only meant …” he trailed off. “No,” he said eventually, “I shall not make you stay there any longer than is needed.”

“Why did you lie to me?” the girl asked, slicing through his dithering like a sword through silk. “They call you the finest knight in the realm, and I thought knights were always meant to tell the truth.” Arya’s large grey eyes never left him for a second. Selmy had no choice but to look away.

“Indeed, my lady, they are.” Ser Barristan sighed. “I am sorry, Arya. I misled you, it was unworthy, and low. I feared if I told you the truth you would not have come, and I could not leave you in that snake pit of a city willingly. You have suffered enough deceit and sadness to last a lifetime, I hope you can forgive my adding to it.”

“Why didn’t you just leave me there if I was interfering with your big plan, whatever it is? I’d been okay on the streets, I’d got really good at catching pigeons, and I knew all the best places to stay safe at night.” She gripped the arms of the chair tight, her small knuckles paling. “When you took me, I was trying to get to Father. If you’d just left me alone I could’ve done something,” Arya’s voice was hoarse, Ser Barristan could see her grey eyes glistening with tears, “If you’d have just …”

“Child,” he said gently, “I found you slashing at half of King’s Landing with your sword. There was nothing you could have done. Even if you had managed to get to Lord Eddard, you were one girl against dozens of knights. Your father would never have wanted you to sacrifice yourself like that. He was a good man, my lady, too good for that city, and too good for Robert, as well. He deserved better than what was given to him.”

Arya looked down, he could hear quiet sobs from where she sat. “I wish we had never left Winterfell,” the girl said, almost in a whisper, “we’d still be together, none of the bad things would have happened.”

Ser Barristan moved to her, but stopped short of comfort. “I swear to you on whatever honour I have left, you will see your family again. I failed your father once, I will not fail him in this.”

The girl looked at him, Selmy saw the agony behind her reddened eyes. “How?” she asked.

“By ship. Well, a different one, at the least. I have enough coin left to get you on the first one out of Pentos.”

“To where?”

“Gulltown, or perhaps White Harbour.”

The girl nodded, but confusion soon twisted her features. “You’ve enough to get me on a ship home?”

“I do. It is not a lot, just what I have remaining from the belongings I sold before-”

“-Just me? You aren’t coming, too?”

He gave her a sad smile. “I cannot, child. My journey takes me east, not west.”

“Why? What’s east?”

“A worthy monarch.” Selmy gave a brief pause. “Perhaps. I have not met him yet.”

The girl’s confused look had not changed. “Who?”

“Viserys Targaryen.”

Her confusion took on a sense of disbelief. “The Beggar King?”

Ser Barristan laughed. “The very same. It is my hope to eschew him of that moniker as best I can. He and his sister are said to be travelling across the Dothraki Sea, so that is where I am headed.” Presuming Robert’s assassin hasn’t already gotten to the girl.

She met his gaze once more. “You’ve never met them, though.”

“True.”

“What if they’re no good? You’ll have travelled all that way for nothing.”

“A fair point, my lady, but I must find out for myself, either way.”

Arya fidgeted slightly. “You could come with me instead. I heard about my brother Robb, he’s fighting the Lannisters for what they did to Father. We could go to him together, and make Joffrey and the queen pay. They’ve hurt both of us, and I know Robb, he’s brave and strong and kind.”

He sighed, sadly. “I have no doubt over your brother’s bravery and honour, but I am a knight of the Kingsguard, my place is at the side of the rightful king.”

Arya gave him a brief look before her eyes went to the floor. Ser Barristan stopped himself from talking further. Let the girl think this over. You have given her plenty to consider. He knew she was disappointed, but he could not veer from his path.

“Ser Barristan?”

“Mm.”

The girl chewed her lip. “Will I be safe on my own?”

Selmy knelt before her once more. “I cannot guarantee everything will go smoothly, child. You must be brave, as you have been before, and as I know you can be again.” He placed an arm on her shoulder. “If not for yourself, then be brave for your father. For the love he had for you, and the joy he would feel to see you safe with your family once more.”.

Arya let out a small chuckle, Ser Barristan could hear joy and sadness battle within it. The two shared a smile, and Ser Barristan had begun to speak when the sound of the door unlocking stopped him.

Captain Vyaro strode into his cabin, scowling. “Your time is up, old man. I hope you had a good chat.”

“We did,” said Arya as she rose from her seat.

Vyaro guided them out of the door. Ser Barristan stepped onto the deck, and took a breath of the fresh sea air.

“So what is Pentos really like?” He heard Arya ask the captain. “Is it hotter than King’s Landing? I hope not, I can’t imagine anywhere hotter than that place.”

He heard the Pentoshi captain sigh, and felt a smile spread across his lips.

 

 

Rays of morning light swept gently through the crew quarters beneath the hull of the trading galley, quiet as whispers. Arya Stark watched them comfortably from within her hammock, smiling a secret smile. That had been her first lesson when she’d boarded the Young Lady for the second time. The stretch of cream-coloured cotton that served as her bed in the trip across the Narrow Sea had caused her quite the headache during her first use of it. Arya soon found out that getting in was much easier than getting out.

The hammocks were built for use by fully-grown men, so Arya had been swallowed whole by the cotton when she’d finally gotten inside. The leftover fabric had curled in on itself and had left Arya feeling like a bug in a cocoon. Maester Luwin had once told her that they did that when they were ready to reach their next stage (the ugly caterpillar becoming the beautiful butterfly) but when Arya had been helped out by Irrys, the ship’s quartermaster, who had shown her to her hammock, she was not perfect and beautiful like her sister Sansa, just red-faced and even more tired than she was when she’d first gotten in.

But that had been a few days ago, and Arya had since learnt how to get in and out safely and easily. It was a very useful skill when working on a ship, sleep was rare and precious, and not a moment could be wasted fighting against your own bedding. The work was tough, especially starting from scratch as Arya had, but she had always been a quick learner. The different types of tasks as well as the company of the crew meant the work was almost fun. Almost.

Arya had spent her first two days mopping the deck, boring, difficult work that left her back and shoulders sore and her hands covered in blisters; she liked it little. Helping with the meals was easier, though the ship’s cook was a gruff Tyroshi who always growled at her and tried to hit her with his wooden spoon. Arya did not understand his words, but his spoon swipes got his point across just fine. By far the best work was on the sails as a rigger; it meant getting to furl and unfurl the Young Lady’s bright red sails. It was the most risky of the jobs she’d done, but climbing high up the mast to feel the sea wind against your face and escape the rest of the world more than made up for it. It was the only place on the ship Arya could be totally alone. She had no room of her own with a big oak door to slam and bar here - her hammock was next to every other one on the ship.

A small part of her missed the work, but that part was forgotten when she had gotten to wake up on her own time yesterday, instead of a crewman calling her ‘little mouse’ or ‘orphan boy’ and tipping her out of her hammock. Captain Vyaro had called her debt paid two days past, which meant Arya had the rest of the trip to herself once more.

She could not say what had caused the change of heart in the gruff captain; Arya had not complained at being put to work, it had been a nice distraction from her painful thoughts. Perhaps that had been why, she thought. Vyaro had expected a feral creature after I ran, he had gotten a quiet little mouse instead.

The thought made Arya grin, she had liked being a sailor. Maybe when I’m back safe home I could go sailing on my own ship. I could even visit the old knight in Essos. She would have her own crew like on the Young Lady; men and women that were good and loyal who’d never betray her. She liked this crew, they weren’t near as cold as their captain and most spoke the common tongue, so Arya had more than just Vyaro and the old knight to talk to, and did not need to rely on the meagre amount of High Valyrian she did know.

There was old Gyllaro the rigger, he’d shown Arya what ropes to pull to unfurl the sails and claimed to have raised a sail in every port known to man; there was Pepo and Vagaro, the Pentoshi oarsmen, both claimed to be the strongest oar on the galley and a heated feud over it had been going on for many years between them. Then there was Norar, who everyone called Planks, the Qohorik carpenter who claimed to understand wood better than any man. “I was born in the wood, 'Arry, I shall die in it too,” he’d explained when she was helping him check the ship’s hull. The Forest of Qohor is the greatest wood on the continent, and the city borders the Qhoyne, a daughter of the great river Rhoyne. Planks had been woodworking and sailing for as long as he could remember, floating rafts he had built himself up and down the river in his youth.

Arya liked the stories he told in his deep voice and thick accent a lot, she liked his flute playing even more. “I know the wood in all its forms, little mouse,” he’d said when he saw her face after she first saw the instrument. He played for the crew on an evening; high sweet sad songs about lost loves, and lively drinking tunes that the crew danced and sang to when they were in their cups. Sansa would weep at the sad ones, Arya knew, but me and the boys would dance and laugh at the others. She could hear their noise and laughter clear as day.

Arya had grown to like the carpenter, but she liked Irrys best. The Braavosi quartermaster sounded just like Syrio had, sometimes she forgot for just a little while and it felt like he was still with her. But that was stupid, Syrio had died in the small hall, protecting her from Ser Meryn Trant. Irrys didn’t look like Syrio either, he was younger, broader and had trimmed black hair; his nose was smaller, and he was no bravo. She’d asked him if he had been one before becoming a quartermaster, but he just chuckled. “I’ve a head for sheets and figures, not water dancing, little mouse,” he had replied. “Even a little thing like you wouldn’t struggle to stick me on my rump, I am thinking. That wooden stick of yours looks dangerous.”

“I’m good at both, anyway,” she’d boasted without thinking.

He had given her a funny look. “What does an orphan boy know of figures?”

Arya had not been able to think of an answer to that, Irrys only smiled at her.

“He is a clever little mouse, then. Run along, 'Arry, I will not ask any more questions.”

She liked him for that most of all. She’d been terrified all day afterwards, but neither the captain nor the old knight had come and scolded her so she knew he hadn’t told anyone. I should find Irrys once I get my ship. He had sailed on Westerosi ships before, maybe he’d want to do it again? He’d told her about each of the Westerosi ports when she’d asked him; he’d said Oldtown was his favourite, but Arya was only interested in the northern ports.

“Gulltown? Well-placed, but smaller than the larger ports.”

“What about White Harbour?” Arya had tried to keep her tone uninterested.

“Cold,” he had answered with a grin. “But I am Braavosi, I can handle the cold better than most other men from the Free Cities.”

“Is it safe?”

“As much as a port can be.” He gave her a wary look. “Are you planning a visit?”

Arya had chewed her lip as she thought. The crew knew the old knight was taking her to safety once they reached Pentos, there wasn’t any risk in admitting as much. Barristan had never been to White Harbour, where Irrys had; and he’d kept quiet about me knowing my figures , she had thought. She decided to tell him, and he told her of White Harbour in turn.

Arya had been to the city before, but that had been with her father on a lordly visit. She had spent her time at the New Castle with Lord Manderly and his kin. It had been little more than a lord’s seat in her mind, but Irrys spoke of White Harbour the port city. He painted a picture in Arya’s mind of the two harbours; the outer was larger, but the inner offered better anchorage and shelter with the wolf’s den and city walls around it. Arya had seen the ships docked by the piers when she had visited, but she’d never been down to them while there. It was a simple walk from the harbours to the Merman’s Palace where Arya would find Lord Manderly. She had told Irrys her brother was a guard at the court when he’d asked about that, forgetting at first that an orphan boy would have no reason to seek an audience at the lord’s palace.

She had not seen much of Lord Wyman Manderly during her two trips to the city; he had spent his time with father and Robb. Arya and Sansa had been left with Manderly’s granddaughters Wynafryd and Wylla. He’ll recognise me, she told herself, he has to.

Irrys often spoke fondly of his home of Braavos. It was the northernmost of the Free Cities, built within a vast lagoon dotted with islands. The city sprouted atop those and was lined with canals. It was as easy to travel by boat than by foot within the Secret City. Arya decided she’d travel there once she had her own ship. I’ll go and find the Sealord and we can talk about Syrio. I’ll tell him about how he died protecting me, she had decided then.

The most lively talk on the ship was always about the Free Cities. There were men from many of them aboard the Young Lady, and debates about which was the finest quickly became heated, especially after the wine had been brought out. Horys spoke of Tyrosh and its high fortress walls, Nako talked eloquently of Myrish artists and learned men, Stallan and Hestor boasted of Old Volantis, its great black walls and its place as the first of the Free Cities. But the loudest debate was between Pentos, and its northern neighbour, Braavos. The crew was manned primarily by men from the two cities, Arya had put it down to that at first. But when the debate raged again the next night, Planks had taken her to one side and explained the real reason.

“There has been many a war between Pentos and Braavos,” the Qohorik said as Pepo boasted of the quality of Pentoshi pier wood. “Braavos won four of six, so my Pentoshi crewmates must fight their war with words now.” Arya was picturing Syrio marching off to battle when the carpenter put in again. “Pentoshi pier wood is better than Braavosi,” he conceded. “But only because there is no such thing as Braavosi wood. There are no trees upon the hundred isles, save those imported by the nobles to stand proud in their stone courtyards. But they would make poor planking for a pier, fruit trees are far too slim. A bit like you, little mouse,” he finished with a grin. She had left Planks to his wood talk and his grins.

When next she’d seen Irrys she had asked him about the wars. “The last was a hundred years past,” he had said with a shrug. “Braavos won the last most convincingly, and outlawed slavery in the city.”

She had chewed her lip when he confirmed it. “If there was war again would you have to fight Pepo and Vagaro and Gyllaro?” Arya knew how war worked in Westeros. The lord called on all of his smallfolk to fight in his name. Braavos was ruled by a sealord and Pentos by a prince, she had supposed it must be the same.

The quartermaster had chuckled at her worry. “It would not be much of a fight, I am thinking. Three against one as you’ve put it, and I am not much of a one.”

“I’m serious!”

“As you say, but there will not be a seventh war. Braavos took more than just Pentos’ slaves when they won. Their military strength was greatly weakened to prevent such a thing.”

“Even still ...” She didn’t like the idea of Irrys going off to war.

“It is sweet of you to worry, but I doubt the sealord needs a simple quartermaster like myself. He has his own men, his own galleys, and his own coin to hire sellswords. Essos is crawling with companies fighting for riches.”

All the talk of war had made her think of her brother Robb. The last she had heard he was marching south with all of her father’s bannermen to avenge Lord Eddard. Arya desperately wanted to join him, but she did not think her lady mother would allow her to march off to war. She might not even let me keep Needle, she thought glumly. Don’t be stupid, another part of her thought, all that matters is getting home to them. Who cares about the sword? And yet ...

Quiet as a shadow, Arya moved over to her trunk. Needle was wrapped  inside her good cloak in a tight bundle. It was the only thing within it, the only thing she owned. She placed it gently beside the box and unwound the fabric slowly. Needle slipped from the last fold and landed on the floor with a thud. She picked the blade up and studied it closely, watching the morning light move across the sharp edge. Arya ran a thumb across Mikken’s mark. A mark of home. She had not had the chance to thank the smith for it before she left for King’s Landing, she would have to do so when she returned.

There was little spare room below the deck of the Young Lady. Vyaro did not believe in wasted space, meaning the only floor not covered by barrels, crates, and goods were the pathways leading deeper into the crew quarters or back up above deck. Arya dare not risk practising next to the hammocks for fear of slicing through one of them. She had only just gained her freedom, and did not want to be stuck sewing as they pulled into Pentos. There was only one type of needlework she was interested in today. She slipped the skinny blade into its sheath hung on her belt alongside her wooden one, donned her cloak, and hid the steel beneath it, just as she’d done on the streets of King’s Landing.

Arya passed a few crewmen who were chatting idly; Pentoshi by their accents. They paid her no mind, she was just the little mouse sneaking about below deck. Only this mouse has steel teeth, she thought grinning. She rested a hand on Needle’s hilt as she moved quick as a snake toward the stairway. Arya was too afraid to use Needle openly on the deck. She was an orphan boy while aboard the ship, where would an orphan boy have found a bravo’s blade like Needle? Her practice sword would work just as well, and wouldn’t raise as many questions. In truth, she didn't even know what practice with Needle would look like, Arya had never had the chance in King’s Landing. Syrio said we’d try it at Winterfell, she remembered. The memory hurt her more than she expected, Arya shook her head and made her way up the wooden stairs.

The Young Lady’s red sails billowed proudly as the ship glided across the dark blue waters of the Narrow Sea. The day was bright and windy. They had made good time during the trip, and were expected to arrive in Pentos by evenfall. Arya was excited by the news, the sooner she arrived in Pentos the sooner she could leave for home. She would miss the Young Lady and its crew once she was gone, however, Arya hoped they might cross paths again one day so she could reward their service properly as Arya of House Stark.

The sun shone down on a quiet deck that morning, a few crewmen were about to ensure things ran smoothly; Arya spotted grey-haired Gyllaro above her amongst the decking and another higher still in the bird’s nest though Arya could not have said who it was. Empty enough , she thought, and besides, my time is my own now, I can do my practice if I please. The ship’s bow was as far from the captain’s cabin as she could get, so Arya chose to draw her wooden sword there. Her only company for practice was the Young Lady herself, a painted wooden figurehead of a woman that sat at the very front of the ship. The crew liked to jest that she was Planks’ own lady wife, that the carpenter had carved her from the prettiest tree in Qohor and had taken her to every ship he had served on to grant the vessel luck. Arya gave Lady Planks a pat on her wooden head before she began. She's never been the First Sword of Braavos, but she’ll do.

She took a deep breath and slid into her water dancer’s stance. Arya stood side on from her sun-and-air foe, her wooden blade in her left hand, her right behind her to better her balance. You are skinny as the shaft of a spear, do you know, she heard Syrio’s Braavosi accent echoing around the small hall. Arya slashed at the pain of the memory, slashed at the image of Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei and Prince Joffrey. At the Hound and Ser Ilyn, the headsman who’d killed her father with his own sword. Arya imagined slicing his ugly head off with Ice, mimicking the motion with her wooden sword. Fierce as a wolverine, she thought, and then, calm as still water, as she took a breath and tested her balance on one leg. The deck swayed beneath her but Arya shifted her weight accordingly. Light as a feather. She spun a reverse pirouette and landed with a thrust, deep into the belly of her phantom foe. Like the stableboy, a cruel little voice reminded her. Arya spun again and lopped the stupid voice’s head off. The gulls in the distance cawed their approval. She glanced at them with squinted eyes against the sun for a moment as she caught her breath, refocused, and spun back into another strike. Dodge, feint, strike. The wooden sword went low then high, she heard her teacher’s voice calling out the strikes before she went for them.

“Impressive,” a different voice called out from behind her. Arya spun toward the sound, wooden sword still drawn. The old knight was leant against the railing, a wrinkled hand shielded his eyes against the morning sun at Arya’s back. “Though I do wonder where an orphan boy like yourself learnt such things.”

Arya looked down sullen at the planks of the deck. “How long were you watching?”

“Long enough,” he answered. “You didn’t notice, did you?”

“I was practising!”

Ser Barristan clicked his teeth. “A swordsman must always be aware of his battlefield. That is what you want to be, correct?”

“I want to be a water dancer,” she countered, “and anyway, this isn’t a battlefield, it’s a ship.”

“Indeed. If it was a battlefield, you’d be dead.”

Her anger flared. “No I wouldn’t!” Why was he being stupid?

“A swordsman with a wooden sword won’t last long against those wielding steel.”

Syrio had , Arya thought, until he fought Ser Meryn in full plate. “I’m not a swordsman, I’m a water dancer.”

“A water dancer uses a sword, do they not?”

“Yes,” she answered warily.

He gave a faint smile. “Then you’re a swordsman.”

Arya furrowed her brows. “But I’m not a man!” She yelled out, too loudly.

“Quite right,” he said, dipping his voice and indicating for her to do the same. “You’re a boy who ought to be keeping out of trouble. This looks an awful lot like trouble.”

“It’s not trouble, it’s practice.”

Barristan took a step closer to her. “It is a risk we do not need to take. You are to be returned to your lady mother soon, I cannot imagine she would approve of this.”

Arya chewed her lip. He was right, she knew. Lady Catelyn had never approved of Arya’s unladylike behaviour. She was always telling her to be more like Sansa, more like a proper highborn lady. Arya had held out some small hope that her mother would allow her to continue her lessons. Robb was off fighting a war, after all, what harm would there be in Arya practising with Needle from time to time. The old knight’s words were a cold pail of water on her hopes. Arya remembered her father after he discovered the sword Jon had given her. He was more sad than angry, and more tired than sad. He had even found Syrio and hired him to teach me. “Lord Eddard is the one who found my teacher, and the one who organised the lessons,” she blurted out in response.

That gave the old knight pause. “Your lord father funded this practice?” There was a hint of disbelief in his deep voice.

She gave a small nod in reply.

He chuckled and shook his head, considering her for a moment. “What am I to do with you, child?”

Arya did not have an answer for that. She was not sure why the old knight seemed to care so much. Once she was aboard a ship headed for home, they would not see each other again. She had forgiven him for lying to her before. Arya hated being lied to, but even she could not say that she would’ve got on the ship knowing it was going to Pentos. That would’ve left her with no escape from the city, and only capture by the Lannisters or death on the streets of King’s Landing as her options. Arya was glad Barristan had given her another choice, even if he had lied to her about it. 

“I wish I had a teacher again,” she found herself saying, “Syrio had only just started my lessons. I can do the basics well enough, but we never even got to practise with Needle. He said we’d do it once we reached Winterfell, but that was before ...”

The old knight gave her a solemn look. Arya studied his face closely; the wrinkles at the corners of his blue eyes, his firm jaw and the snow white beard that grew about it. A solemn look on a solemn face. He was tall still, his back was straight. Well past sixty but she could see the strength of him, and no one doubted his skill at arms. Sansa claimed he was still the finest knight in the Seven Kingdoms. She considered that for a moment. What if?...

He seemed to sense her very thoughts, a startled laugh escaped his lips. “You are a wild little thing, Arya Stark,” he said quietly. The knight glanced across the deck behind him. Gyllaro had climbed down the mast and was talking with one of the cabin boys, it was still quiet above deck. “We are keeping a low profile here, or have you forgotten? It is bad enough that one of us is practising swordplay in open view, let alone both of us.”

Arya chewed her lip. “It’d only be one lesson, just so I have someone to work with for a little while. Besides, you’re Barristan the Bold,” she said in an excited whisper. “I’m not likely to find a better teacher anytime soon.”

He was unmoved. “Courtesies shall not serve you here. My task is too great to risk on the whims of an unruly child.” Ser Barristan sounded less like a storybook hero and more like Septa Mordane. Arya felt a familiar anger rise in her, her hand gripped the hilt of her wooden sword tight as the old knight made to walk away.

It would just be one lesson, why can’t he even give me that? He’s just a stupid, sad old knight.

Arya lifted her practice sword up and aimed a backslash for the old man’s side, enough to let him know how she felt. A whirl of brown and white spun quicker than she could have imagined and knocked her strike aside with ease. The jolt it sent up her arm was fierce enough to make Arya’s eyes water. Ser Barristan loomed over her, his robes fluttered about him against the sea breeze. His eyes stared down at her impassively; two pools of still water, Arya could sense the storm that hid within them.

Barristan looked like the Father himself standing tall on the deck. “Do not test me, child,” he boomed. Arya raised her sword and tested him again, going low but slashing only at air. Selmy had stepped aside gracefully, moving his staff between his hands as he did. Arya gritted her teeth and swung again, the old knight knocked the blow aside and sent her stumbling into the ship’s railing. “This is folly,” he said, though his voice was more amused than angry. Arya ignored him, pushing off the railing with a thrust aimed for his chest. He was not there when she aimed her strike, sharp pain shot up her back and the deck of the Young Lady rushed to meet her. Arya grunted in pain and rolled onto her side, when she saw his hand approach her she flinched, but the old knight was only offering to help her to her feet.

“You are a swift little thing, but still raw. You might as well call out where each strike will be going, the little good they do you.” She took his hand and he lifted her to her feet with ease. “You’re too light as well, the gods did not fashion you for strength but you’re like to get taken off by a strong breeze if you’re not careful.”

She screwed up her face. “I am not! I climbed to the top of the rigging with Gyllaro no problem!” Arya hated all his stupid lessons, she could be as strong as Robb if she wanted to. “I’m only ten besides, I can still grow. I just need a teacher to show me how.”

He smiled. “You must always ask your opponent questions, child,” he began. “Do not give him an easy test, or he will pass, and you will be crowfood.” He took a step away to give her space. “Let me see your stance.”

She did as he asked, sliding into her water dancer’s pose, her practice sword pointed at the old knight. He studied her for a moment and gave a short nod. “I can see the merit in it, especially for one as small as you. But I am no bravo to teach you to water dance. The knight and the bravo are as different as ice and fire.”

Arya did not leave the pose, her eyes met his. “I don’t need a water dancer, just a teacher.”

He sighed. “Our shared journey ends at Pentos, child. I cannot be your teacher. But I may be able to teach you.”

Arya’s heart stopped in her chest. She knew now that she had held that hope in her chest as soon as she’d reconciled with the old knight. She had even recalled her father offering up Ser Barristan as a replacement for Syrio as a teacher when he’d worried over her scratches and bruises. Yet she had dismissed it as a fanciful idea. She was a highborn girl, ten years of age and skinny as a stick. Ser Barristan Selmy had more important things to do than train her, he’d only saved her out of respect for Father. He hadn’t been searching for potential knights on the streets of King’s Landing; and yet here he stood offering to give her a lesson. “Are you sure?”

“For now,” the old knight said with a grin. “So let us begin quickly, before my wits return,”

They worked until the sun was high in the sky above, until Arya’s throat was dry and her belly was rumbling, until her legs were stiff and her arms ached (her left more than her right), until the old knight stopped them and told her she might just have the makings of a knight. Arya grinned at his words and grinned at the ache she felt as he helped lead her below deck for the midday meal. It is a good ache, she thought, like an old friend returned. Ser Barristan was right when he said he was no water dancer. They worked on stances, positioning, parries, counters, feints, and strikes. The flow and expression of the bravo was replaced with the sturdy discipline of knighthood, but Arya did not complain. She followed his instructions as best she could and took on each piece of feedback she received. She was eager to learn, and the old knight did not disappoint. Arya noted each difference between the styles she had learnt, understanding the contrasts, and appreciating when the two overlapped.

“Even fully grown you will never out strength the bulk of your foes,” the old knight had told her a short while into their lesson, “but you will outspeed them, and if you listen well outthink them too.”

If he had any doubts over training a highborn girl, Ser Barristan did not make them clear. He handed out orders, praise, and critique fairly. It was like Syrio had said in her first lesson, “Boy, girl, you are a sword, that is all.” It was only a one off, Arya had decided once they’d finished, he was just trying to get you to leave him alone. In any case, Arya had enjoyed it more than she could say.

“If this had been Harvest Hall back in my day you’d have had to crawl back for your supper,” Barristan reminisced as they ate amongst the crew in the mess. “The master-at-arms was as hard a teacher as you’re ever like to find in all the Seven Kingdoms. A knight by the name of Ser Arvin Perk. He was my father’s loyal sword but by the gods did he ever work us hard.” Selmy was looking wistfully past Arya as he let his mutton stew cool.

Arya could only picture old Ser Rodrik and his whiskers as he talked of masters-at-arms. Will he be my next teacher? He had taught Robb and Jon, and her father too when he was younger.

“There was a test he’d have us do every morning,” the old knight continued, revelling in the fog of memory, “I tire just thinking of it, where we would have to run the length of the training yard before a horn was blown. If you failed to reach the end of the yard before the horn you were out, it was last one standing wins. We called it the ‘Perk Run’. Be glad I didn't have you doing that, child,” Barristan said with a wry chuckle. “Work like that will make you ache for a fortnight and have you raining down every curse you can muster on the teacher who did it to you, but it’ll keep you alive. There is no greater reward than that.” He broke off a piece of hard black bread and dipped it into his stew. “That is another lesson to take with you if you’re intending to pursue this when you’re home.”

“I am,” Arya’s voice was certain. “Ser Rodrik Cassell is master-at-arms at Winterfell. He has to teach me, doesn’t he?”

The old knight took a moment to swallow. “Perhaps. A master-at-arms is charged with training highborn sons.”

Arya knew what he meant. “But Father let me. He even said I could bring Syrio back with me on the ship.”

“As you’ve said, but the decision will no doubt rest with your lady mother.”

“Or Robb,” she protested, “he’s Lord of Winterfell now.” That left a queer feeling in her gut.

Ser Barristan gave her a telling look. It will still rest with Lady Catelyn, it said. Arya chewed her lip, she knew it was not a good sign. The knight sensed her worry and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I would not fret too much, Arya. In the short time I’ve known you, you have not struck me as the type to give up without a fight.”

Arya banished her doubts with black bread and mutton stew, sipping from a cup of watered-down ale. The old knight had insisted after seeing her carrying back a cup taken straight from the barrel. He had allowed her to have half a cup as reward for her efforts on the deck. Arya’s father had allowed her and her siblings a cup of wine or ale on special occasions; she could not think of a more special occasion than getting to train with Ser Barristan Selmy. Wait till I tell the boys , she thought, smiling, they’ll be so jealous!

She glanced about the mess as the old knight talked of his youth at Harvest Hall and his time squiring for Lord Manfred Swann. The crew ate based on their roles onboard. Oarsmen with oarsmen, riggers with riggers, swabbies with swabbies; Arya had supped with them all. Today was the first time she’d eaten with Ser Barristan since they’d come aboard. Captain Vyaro sat alone at the head of the room, men of the highest station sat closest to him, now and again rising to discuss something briefly before returning to their meals. Arya saw Irrys sat with first mate Merro, Belys the boatswain, Planks, and the ship’s master Jaeren, who had a pot belly and a squat nose. The captain ate methodically, breaking up his loaf into equal pieces and selecting one at a time to dip into his creamy stew. He always had his meals with his men, though he did not sit and talk with them save those in the highest offices, and even then not often. It reminded Arya of her father. Lord Eddard always ate with a member of their household at Winterfell, and the talk around the table would shift accordingly. There was no talk at Vyaro’s table, she noted, only Vyaro. Arya found herself staring at the captain, but when his dark brown eyes met hers she quickly looked back to her bowl and had another spoonful of stew.

The talk was found on the other tables set up within the ship’s mess. The men talked loudly and with much excitement, most of them would soon return home. Arya did not know the words they spoke, but their emotion was clear. No doubt they talked of the women they would be visiting, the families they would be seeing, and the drinks they would be having. She’d asked for specifics once her and the old knight had finished their meal, but they just laughed at her.

“Wait till you are older, 'Arry orphan boy,” Pepo had replied, a grin spread across his big mouth.

“Ask that grandfather of yours and stop bothering us,” the Tyroshi Belonos responded with a scowl that made his mean features even meaner.

Vagaro laughed at that. “That old man will not be helping. His bits are all wrinkled up, the blood in his veins is old and slow.” The jape brought about a gale of laughter from the other men on the benches.

Irrys had cut them off, lifting a hand and saying something sharply in a tongue she did not know; Braavosi or Pentoshi most like. He grinned over the table. “You have never been feeling things for a girl, 'Arry?”

“Feeling what?”

“Ah, well that is the question. Desire, longing, heartache, pain, pleasure, joy, sadness. All of these things you might be feeling. Have you?”

“No,” Arya said to a chorus of laughter and talk from the crewmen.

“You will one day,” Irrys said, cutting through the noise, “until then, be grateful, little mouse.”

Arya was still puzzling over their words when she returned to her hammock. She’d felt those things individually, but never for just one person and certainly not over a girl. Arya thought they might’ve meant the love they talked about in the songs; a man and a woman falling into each other's arms and being happy forever more. Arya never liked those stories, though, and there was never sadness or heartache in them, like Irrys had described. Mayhaps the girl was Pentos? She’d heard some of the crew call the city ‘she’ before, all those emotions made more sense for a great big city than they did for some girl. Arya felt similarly about Winterfell and the North, her answer might come once she’s headed for home herself.

Arya returned to her hammock, hoping to rest her aching body before they reached the city. She found herself bizarrely wanting to savour the sensation, Arya knew none of the things expected of a highborn lady would make her feel like this. Her left arm, where she held her sword, ached worst of all. Syrio had told her every hurt is a lesson, Arya knew the more her sword arm ached, the stronger it was getting. Sleep found her quicker than she could have thought, the exhaustion of the training came all at once as soon as she lay down. Arya was only roused a while later by voices coming from above deck.

“Pentos!” A voice cried out, soon joined by others. Cheers, shouts and laughter. She knew the emotion even if she didn’t know the words. Joy. It was a stranger to her now, but perhaps not for long. Arya slid from her hammock and followed the noise up above deck. The sky was pink and purple, the sun hanging low in the sky behind the ship. The deck was as busy as she had seen it, crewmen were either preparing the Young Lady for docking or leaning over the ship’s railing to get a better glimpse of the city. Arya moved over to join them and get a better look at the cityscape that was slowly coming into view.

Buildings sprouted all along the edge of the bay as they approached, tiled roofs stood above the glittering water and stretched as far back as Arya could see. Towers and temples gave way to sprawling manses which dotted the hills beyond the press of the water’s edge. It was smaller than King’s Landing, but far prettier to look upon. The capital was a sprawling mass of motte-and-bailey hovels, an open wound that festered on the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, like a pox on a whore’s face. Arya could not imagine it was what Aegon the Conqueror had envisioned when he had first landed in Westeros. Whatever plans Pentos’s founders had drawn up for the city could very well have been followed to the letter, such was its neatness compared to the capital.

A hand clasped Arya’s shoulder and an arm pointed towards the rippling water made orange by the setting sun. “The Bay of Pentos teems with life,” Ser Barristan said.

Arya’s eyes went to the water and saw it full of ships. Small fishing boats bobbed lazily, collecting their last catches of the day, trading galleys like The Young Lady flowed toward and away from the city while the rest sat at port, moving at the whims of the water. Arya even spotted the odd war galley, with bright sails fluttering proud in the evening breeze. Each one presented hope, each one an escape. Her heart soared at the sight of them.

She glanced up at the old knight, his pale blue eyes moved from the ships and down to her. “Thank you, ser,” Arya said awkwardly. “For this ... and for the lesson too.”

He smiled at her. “Think nothing of it, child.”

They stood together as the Young Lady slowly approached the city’s harbour. The sound of Pentos grew at their approach, some had finished work for the day whilst some had just begun. It sounded much the same as King’s Landing to Arya, the biggest difference was the smell. It was a queer scent, unfamiliar to her. It smelt of Essos. Essosi water, Essosi fish, Essosi food, Essosi spice. Strange, but not unpleasant. The city was cooler than the capital, with a good wind that stirred the various trees that adorned the hillside manses of the wealthy. It was a fresher smell than King’s Landing, even the pleasant smells wilted under the heat of that city. But Arya truly pined for the smoky, earthen smells of Winterfell. The scent of stone and hearth and home. If the old knight’s plan worked, she would not need to get used to the queer fresh scent of the Free City of Pentos.

As the ship docked, the old knight excused himself to talk briefly with the captain. Arya was trying to decipher the name of another ship docked a distance away when a voice spoke from behind her.

“Service,” she heard Irrys say in his solemn Braavosi accent. “You are in Pentos now, little mouse. It would do you well to learn to read High Valyrian, I am thinking.”

Arya turned away from Service’s unpainted hull. “I’m not staying,” she retorted. “I’m bound for-”

“-White Harbour,” Irrys finished. “Just so.” The quartermaster placed a knuckle to his forehead in what looked like a mark of respect. He joined her at the side of the ship. “Perhaps we shall be meeting again in a few years, you have the makings of a sailor, I am thinking. Grey Gyllaro says you race up and down the rigging like a mummer’s monkey, and Planks says you’ve a good head on your shoulders for one so small. Though Pepo says you will never pull an oar with arms as skinny as yours.” Irrys squeezed her arm to prove his point but Arya wriggled from his grip scowling, yet it was hard to stay mad at the quartermaster who reminded her so of Syrio Forell.

“I did like being a sailor,” she admitted. “Once I’m older I’ll get my own ship and visit all the ports like Gyllaro has. Maybe I’ll come find you in Pentos or Braavos and you can come with me,” Arya said breathlessly, getting carried away in the dream.

“Perhaps,” Irrys said with a slight smile. “For now the ambitious little mouse is best served getting home. That way he can dream his dreams of the open sea from a safe bed with warm food in his belly, yes?”

Arya nodded. He was right, all that mattered right now was getting back to Westeros safely. He didn’t say no, a small voice said, that’s as good as saying yes. He could be first mate or master if he wanted, not just quartermaster again.

His hazel eyes studied hers. “You are sad to be leaving us.”

Arya felt a flush creep up her face. She knew it was stupid to be sad. She was going home now, to her family and her friends at Winterfell. The Young Lady’s crew were just a part of her journey home, she’d only known them for a few days. She’d known the people of Winterfell her whole life.

When Arya did not respond the quartermaster chuckled. “I would not be too sad, 'Arry. This is not a goodbye, I am thinking. For once you have tasted the sea, it will always call you back.”

Irrys glanced over Arya’s shoulder to where the ship’s plank had been dropped against the harbour’s pier. “Valar dohaeris.” Arya watched as Captain Vyaro led two men aboard the ship. Irrys explained they were there to inspect the ship’s holds, and it was his job to aid them. Irrys mussed Arya’s shortened hair and said goodbye, descending below deck with the two Pentoshi.

Captain Vyaro took his place by Arya’s side. It was not a trade she was overly happy with. “Boy,” he began once Irrys and the others had gone, “you worked well, and did not bother me with nonsense. I can appreciate these things.”

Arya was taken aback by the compliment, limited as it was. “Thank you, captain.”

Vyaro gave a curt nod. “Now, please get off my ship.”

Ser Barristan appeared as the demand was ushered, carrying Arya’s rolled-up cloak in his hands, with Needle hidden inside. “Best do as the captain says, child."

Arya said her goodbyes on the planks of the pier, shouting up to the members of the crew she had gotten to know over the voyage. Their goodbyes were a mix of well-wishes, japes, and a few insults relating to her work on the ship. It hurt to turn her back on them, not knowing if she’d ever see them again, but she had no choice. Her family were waiting, and it was time to go home.

“I shall ask for White Harbour or Gulltown at these galleys first,” Ser Barristan said, gesturing to a group of ships bobbing next to different piers. “Once one is found, pay them with this.” He pressed a small pouch of coins into her hand. “We must stay here no longer than is necessary. It would not do to raise suspicion, and I am expected elsewhere in the city.”

“With who?” Arya asked as the two of them moved past the rows of piers. The sun hung low in the sky, bathing the busy harbour in evening light. Arya could hear music and revelry drifting from the dozen or so inns that dotted the dockside. Before the knight could answer, a brightly carved palanquin burst into view in front of them, parting the crowd as it appeared. The four well-built men who carried it stopped abruptly in their path. Arya glanced at Ser Barristan and saw fear in his eyes, her heart began to beat faster at the sight. A man half the size of those carrying the palanquin emerged from behind the structure; his hair was slicked back with a fragrant oil, an oiled mustachio spread across his upper lip like a stain. A smile spread across his thin lips which sent a shiver up Arya’s spine.

“Honoured guests,” he began, spreading his arms in mock appeasement, “Magister Illyrio Mopatis has been awaiting your arrival for some time.” The man with the fake smile gestured towards the palanquin. “Come, he has much to discuss with you both.”

 

 

The magister’s guard dropped Arya Stark bluntly onto the cold chamber floor, his round, hairless face utterly without emotion. It was clear he could not care less about the scrawny little thing he had dragged kicking and fighting through the corridors of the manse.

Arya, however, was an altogether different matter.

“You stupid! You can’t leave me here, I need to go home!”

The only answer she got was the slam of a painted door and the sound of a lock turning within it. That didn’t stop her from pounding on the wood with clenched fists, or from threatening the guard and the man that paid him with very painful deaths.

“Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!” Arya accentuated each word with another slam. Her hands were red and throbbing with pain, but she did not care.

“BARRISTAN! SER BARRISTAN! I’M IN HERE!” Arya shook the door’s handle, the metal was cool against her tender palms. “Tell them! Tell them they cannot do this! I need to go home!” The painted door began to blur. “It’s not fair! YOU PROMISED!” Arya growled out the last word, her throat was raw from shouting, her eyes wet with tears.

She slid down to her knees, defeated. “You promised,” she said, one last time, voice barely above a whisper.

There was no sound for a good long while afterwards, aside from the little girl’s quiet sobs. That’s all you are, a stupid little girl who can’t do anything right. You can’t even keep hold of your own sword. That part stung the most. They’d taken Needle, the blade that Jon had given her, that reminded her so strongly of her life before King’s Landing where everything went wrong.

“The magister is a friend, child, he means us no harm.” That was what Ser Barristan had told her as they stepped into the palanquin. And you believed him, like a silly little girl would.

The magister had not harmed Arya, in truth, she had not even met the man yet, but that had not stopped him from leaving orders for his guards to grab and toss her into a locked room until she was of use. Arya chewed her lip. 

The grabbing and tossing was my fault, she knew, and them taking Needle, that was my fault, as well, no matter how much it hurt to admit. She had drawn the blade when the lip-stain seneschal had announced the magister’s commands, and had it wrested out of her grip by the same big round guard who had locked her in this chamber.

It was rash, and stupid, stupid most of all, but Arya was tired of grownups messing her around. She had agreed to follow Ser Barristan to the manse, holding to the hope that the magister may be able to put her on a boat home that night, but secretly vowing to run at the first sign of danger. I had the pouch of coin, and I had Needle, that was all I needed. She had been wrong.

Needle was gone, but Arya still had the pouch. She reached inside her cloak and brought it out, the coins clinked lightly as she moved it. I’d swap every stupid coin in this purse for Needle, she declared, I can’t mount an escape with a pouch of pennies! Arya closed her hand around the leather pouch. You can’t gain passage on a ship without them, either. Stupid, silly little girl. She felt tears well again.

I should never have come here, I should’ve ran like I did back in King’s Landing. She had trusted the old knight back then, and he had lied to her, just as he had lied to her now. Ser Barristan had gotten an audience with the magister while Arya got a cell to stew in until there was need of her. And what use would a magister even have for an orphan from King’s Landing?

“They all lie,” Arya whispered. “All of them.” Joffrey, Queen Cersei, and Sansa by the Trident, Desmond outside the Hand’s solar, Ser Meryn in the small hall, even her father up on the steps outside the Great Sept.

That wasn’t Father’s lie, she knew, it was the queen’s. But it didn’t matter now, her father was gone and the queen’s lies had not saved him. Arya was tired of it all. She had hoped to leave the lies behind at King’s Landing, but she had ended up sailing somewhere just as bad.

This isn’t my journey. This isn’t my place. The old knight had taken her along on a whim, and dropped her the first chance he had gotten. He’ll sail east for his stupid dragons, and leave me here. Her father had always called Ser Barristan a man of honour. Another lie, she thought bitterly. Arya would have given anything to have her father in Ser Barristan’s place. Let Ser Ilyn Payne chop his liar’s head off instead.

Thinking of her father made her sad all over again. Tears fell in his memory, but they would never be enough to fill the hole he had left inside her.

“You told me to be strong, and I promised I would. I promised I’d be as strong as Robb.” She sobbed. “That was another lie, wasn’t it?” Her father never answered. She wept in his absence, wept for the shape of him, wept for the feeling of his arms wrapped around her in a hug, wept for the scratch of his beard when she pressed her face to his, wept for his rough hand holding hers, wept for the sound of his voice and the sound of his laughter. Arya Stark wept and wept and wept for her father, and that was when she heard it.

Faintly, so faintly, came the long, lonely howl of a wolf. Arya’s head shot up at the noise. Outside her window, the sun had set on Pentos, and the lights of the city were the only thing keeping the dark at bay. But in that darkness, the wolf howled.

And after the wolf, came her father. Quieter still, a whisper on the wind, his voice seemed to come to her. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” he said.

“But there is no pack,” she whispered to the darkness. Bran and Rickon were back in Winterfell, Robb was off fighting, the Lannisters had Sansa, Jon had gone to the Wall. “I’m not even me now, I’m ‘Arry the orphan boy.”

“You are Arya of Winterfell, daughter of the north. You told me you could be strong.”

“I tried, but I can’t.”

“You can. You have the wolf blood in you.”

“The wolf blood.” Arya remembered now. “Like Lady Lyanna.” She took a deep breath, and rose to her feet, fuelled by her blood, fuelled by her memory.. I am a direwolf, she thought, and done with tears.

Barristan Selmy hesitated outside the door, fearing the tirade he was sure to get once he opened it. He had failed the girl once again, thinking himself smart enough to outmaneuver the magister in his own city. Someone told , he thought bitterly. One of those damned sailors, like as not. And the girl had been so fond of them …

He grimaced, mourning how close he had been to getting Lady Arya away safely. Selmy shook his head, knowing the futility of such thoughts, and slid the key into the door’s lock.

The sound of the lock turning made Arya jump backwards. She grasped for where Needle was sheathed, but found only air. She was expecting the round-faced guard to come through the door, or the steward with his greasy hair, or even some Essosi-looking man she had imagined Magister Illyrio to be, but it was none of them.

“Ser Barristan?”

The old knight did not enter the room. He looked older than when Arya had left him, though that had been less than an hour ago. “Might I come in?”

Arya did not drop her guard. “If you like.”

He shut the door more gently than the bald guard had. Arya kept her distance as he moved forward, wary of anything and everything. Ser Barristan sighed. “Surely you do not believe I mean to harm you, child?”

She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. She kept quiet, instead.

Ser Barristan did not relent. “I do hope you were not hurt, those guards were fearsome large, and you were struggling quite awfully.”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, “and I was only struggling because they took Needle!”

He frowned. “Your blade was taken because it had been drawn. A knight should never unsheathe a sword unless he means to use it.” He paused. “Did you?”

Arya chewed her lip. Did I? She wanted to escape, and they were getting her way so … Arya thought of the stableboy, of the way Needle went through his leather jerkin and the white flesh of his belly. She turned away from the old knight, feeling sick.

“I did not think so. You’re young, my lady, but no fool.” He reached within his cloak. “Now promise me you shan’t draw this recklessly again.” Needle was still in its scabbard, Arya raced over to take it back.

“You got it?”

“Aye, though the magister’s seneschal was less than pleased.” Ser Barristan gestured towards the door. “Let us not keep him waiting any longer, then.”

Him? Arya froze. “What do you mean?”

The old knight gave her an odd look. “We have delayed, child, and the magister is not a patient man.”

We’re meeting him, she realised. “Oh,” was all she said.

Ser Barristan set a brisk pace, his wooden staff clacking off the tiled floor. Arya did her best to keep up, having to take two steps for each stride the old knight made. Arya broke the silence as they entered a courtyard that linked the two sections of the manse. “What does he want to talk to me about?”

“He gave no details, only that he considered you a person of interest and that he enjoys such company.”

Arya chewed her lip. “He doesn’t …”

“No, not that I can tell, nor did I give him any inclination to.” The old knight slowed his pace. “I am sorry, child, I had sorely hoped not to entangle you within this web. This is my path to walk, and you’ve ended up dragged along with me.” He stopped in the centre of the courtyard. “But that ends now. The magister shall ask his questions, we shall give our answers, and then we shall be on our way. I made a promise to see you home, child, and I do not intend to break it.”

Arya nodded, not knowing what to say. Some part of her was still angry with the old knight, but another part of her could taste her freedom, close as it was. Just one meeting, she told herself. Keep quiet, and let him do the talking. There’s no reason for the magister to care about an orphan boy like ‘Arry.

They resumed their pace, feet drumming against the courtyard’s cobbles. Arya was keeping her head down to seem as unimportant as possible, and almost ran into the plinth of a statue at the centre of the plaza.

Ser Barristan pulled her back. “Careful, child, I need you conscious for this meeting.”

She ignored the jape, transfixed by the figure that stood atop the plinth. For half a heartbeat Arya thought it was real, so intricate was the marblework. The statue was of a young man posed mid-battle, wielding a bravo’s blade just like Needle. Arya had been so impressed by the craftsmanship that she had only just noticed the man was naked.

Weird. “Who is it?”

The answer came from a voice behind them. “Why, you are looking at your gracious host, Magister Illyrio Mopatis.”

They turned to see the seneschal descending a flight of steps, a smirk plastered onto his face.

“Tregio,” the old knight said, putting a name to the man.

The seneschal inclined his head. “Ser Barristan.”

He smiled tightly. “I know the way to the magister’s quarters, Tregio.”

“Of course you do, they are this way.” He strode past them, and they had little choice but to follow.

Faint music greeted them first, drifting through the cool night air from somewhere nearby. They turned a corner towards the song’s source and found it hidden behind a pair of varnished doors. Tregio gave a gentle knock and opened both in one smooth motion, revealing the lavish room within.

Tregio’s voice called out again. “Honoured guests, might I introduce Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos, and your host for this evening.”

Arya’s ears had led her eyes when the doors had been opened, and she found herself studying the singer first. He had ceased his music, and for a moment she had thought him to be the magister thanks to the passing resemblance he held to the statue outside. It was only after Tregio’s overt gesture to him that Arya noticed the other man in the room.

She had to stifle a chuckle after seeing him, for the magister was grossly fat, and quite hard to miss. It was only when she saw his face that all else was forgotten in a flood of grief and memory, because Arya had seen this man before.

For the second time in her short life, Arya Stark came face to face with Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos, and the man who’d killed her father.

Arya froze still in the doorway as the old knight and the greasy seneschal walked into the room. The magister’s voice was amiable as he thanked the singer and welcomed them in, but Arya knew the truth. 

The voice that spoke in the liquid accent of the Free Cities belonged only in her nightmares. 

It had spoken in whispered tones by torchlight, plotting treason and bloody betrayal. It talked of much and more in the darkness below the Red Keep, echoing off the cold black walls, but in Arya’s mind it only ever said one thing.

If one Hand can die, why not a second?

“We thank you for your hospitality, magister,” Ser Barristan said, hoping his distaste was hidden well enough, “though we hope to not impose upon you any longer than necessary.”

Mopatis waved a ring-covered hand. “My house is yours. Any friends of my friend across the water is a friend to Illyrio Mopatis, yes.” The magister frowned. “But I am seeing only one friend, ser knight. Where is the boy?”

Selmy glanced about and thought the same thing, only spotting the child hovering by the entrance a heartbeat before the magister did.

Small eyes, half-hidden beneath rolls of fat, found Arya. Pig’s eyes , she thought, shining in the candlelight. “Ah, there you are. I almost did not see you all the way back there, boy. Such a little thing …”

Ser Barristan looked at her. “Come here, child.”

Arya stared back at the old knight, willing him to understand. He doesn’t know the danger we’re in! But how could he? He wasn’t down there in the dark …

If one Hand can die, why not a second?

Magister Illyrio chuckled lightly. “I promise I do not bite, little one.”

Arya looked at him, heart beating in her chest. No, you kill. She wanted to run again, she wanted to find the ship that would sail her home, far, far away from the magister’s manse. Arya thought she knew the way back to the harbour, and she could outrun the old knight and the fat magister’s guards easily, but she’d tried to run last time and lost Needle. She didn’t want to risk that for a second time.

What would Father do? Or Robb? Or Jon? Arya chewed her lip. I promised I’d be strong …

She had run from Mycah at the Trident, had run from Syrio in the small hall, had run from Ser Barristan on the Young Lady, and from the seneschal when they’d first arrived at the manse. She’d run every time things got hard, and where had that gotten her? Right here, standing across from the man who’d torn out her heart. Arya knew if it were Prince Joffrey or Queen Cersei sat there, she would not hesitate, would not run again. She was a direwolf, and direwolves do not run.

Arya took a step forward, and another, one foot in front of the other till she stood by the old knight’s side. He placed an arm on her shoulder, and Arya imagined it was her father’s, doing her best to mask her fear. Direwolves don’t show fear, she knew.

Illyrio Mopatis flashed a small yellow smile as Arya approached. “Please, sit,” he said, gesturing towards the two empty seats placed across from him. They were much too big for Arya, built to bear the magister’s weight, and when she sat in one she felt like some girl’s doll, propped up against the cushions for some childish lark.

Across the dining chamber, fires burned in sconces fixed to the painted plaster walls, while above where they sat an ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling, two dozen candles flickering away. It was thrice the size of the dining chamber at Winterfell, with large glass windows and a brightly-coloured tile floor.

The table placed between them was home to a buffet of wine and food, the magister had been helping himself to it when they entered, and he picked up where he’d left off now. Illyrio bid them to enjoy some as well. Ser Barristan took a cup of wine he sipped mildly, Arya declined, her stomach felt like a nest of vipers.

“A pity,” said Illyrio, “for it is truly a grand banquet. I employ the finest cooks in the Free Cities, do you know? An appetite such as mine must only be treated to the best,” he said, patting his enormous belly. Their host washed his latest mouthful down with a glass of wine. “It is your first time in the great city of Pentos, I am hearing. If so, you must try some local cuisine before you depart.”

“With respect, magister, I’d sooner discuss our departure from your great city than its culinary strengths,” said the old knight. It was plain to see the array of food had tempted him no more than it had Arya.

The magister dabbed at his large mouth with a handkerchief. “Of course, my friend, more pressing things at hand, as ever.”

Ser Barristan smiled tightly. “Quite.” He shot a glance at Arya. “We have discussed the child already, magister …”

“Ah, yes, the orphan boy who melted the heart of the stoic old knight.” Mopatis chuckled lightly, causing his stomach to wobble like some vast jelly. “I jest, of course, though I cannot help but wonder what the boy did to so esteem himself against the glut of other orphans that infest that stinking city?”

Selmy bristled at the question, and searched the fat man’s beady eyes for any signs of deeper knowing. “He crossed paths with me.”

“And what a stroke of luck that was!” Magister Illyrio held up a hand, fingers like oiled sausages. “Forgive me, ser knight, I fear I lost myself in the story. You mentioned your departure …”

Ser Barristan spoke slowly, warily. “Yes. I do not intend to renege on our agreement, but I would see safe passage for the child before I go.”

Illyrio looked from Ser Barristan to Lady Arya. “I see. Where would the child be heading?”

“Gulltown. White Harbour, if not,” he said with a slight shrug. “The boy has family in the North.”

The magister stroked his forked beard as he thought. “It can be arranged,” he said after a pause.

Ser Barristan lowered his head. “Thank you, magister.”

“I trust the boy will not go off gossiping about his good friend the knight and his future plans?” The magister looked to Arya when he posed the question.

“No,” she said, “I promise.”

The look he gave her sent a shiver up Arya’s spine, fear and familiarity shooting through her. The possibility that she was looking into the eyes of the man who had helped kill her father made her stomach turn.

If one Hand can die, why not a second?

“Where are my manners?” the magister asked, seemingly unaware of Arya’s discomfort. “I have not even asked your name, boy! It seems my skills as host still lack some refinement.”

“My name is ‘Arry,” she said, fidgeting slightly as she spoke.

“Might I enquire as to where Master ‘Arry hails from?”

“Westeros.”

Magister Illyrio guffawed at her answer, causing all of his chins to wobble. He looked to Ser Barristan. “He is not much of a talker, but I like that. Never give them more than they need. A valuable lesson, boy.”

The old knight gave a small smile. “Will that suffice, magister? The boy is tired, and will have a long journey ahead of him on the morrow.”

Mopatis nodded. “Yes, absolutely … only ...” he said, just as the pair had begun to leave, “Tregio said the boy drew a sword against my guards.”

Selmy kept an arm around Arya’s shoulders. “A misunderstanding, magister.”

“Just so, and yet it seems this sword is of some note. A bravo’s blade, my seneschal called it. You see, I was a bravo myself in my younger years. It would truly warm my soul to look upon a sword much like the one I owned in my youth.”

Ser Barristan glanced at her, pale blue eyes betrayed his nerves. “Go on, child.”

Arya hesitated. The magister was looking at her like she was a morsel on his plate. His sunken eyes moved down to her sword belt. Needle was hidden underneath her cloak, but he seemed to know exactly where it was.

No, she thought, I’d sooner stick it through your fat throat.

“I shan’t take it from you, child,” Magister Illyrio said, noting her apprehension. “Would you not abide a sad old man his memories?”

“I …” Arya glanced up at the old knight, and he matched her gaze with a stern look that brooked no argument. She so dearly wished she could explain to him what she had seen, what grave danger the two of them were in.

Instead, she relented, and slowly lifted her cloak, revealing her sword. Arya glanced up at Ser Barristan and he gave her a firm nod. She grasped Needle’s hilt and pulled it free, the steel of the blade shone against the candlelight. The magister’s eyes watched it intently.

“Magnificent,” he murmured.

Cautiously, she brought it towards him. “Please, be careful with it.” Arya placed the hilt in his large palm, it made the blade look just like its namesake.

He examined Needle with a gentleness Arya had not expected of a man his size. The magister gave a small chuckle, as though recalling a joke only he understood.

“Certainly not Essosi forged, though the base design is the same. This is a fine sword, well made. It does bring back fond memories.”

Mopatis made a motion to return it to her, Arya took a step forward to receive it, but the magister hesitated, then, quite suddenly, he tossed Needle high into the air, light dancing off its edge as it spun. Arya’s eyes went wide and she gasped, the old knight moved forwards, too, perhaps anticipating her next move.

Yet instead of her sword clattering to the floor or sticking in a wall, Magister Illyrio caught it by its handle with ease, displaying breath-taking dexterity in the process. Arya let out a nervous laugh in response, the fat man’s crimes briefly forgotten in the absurdity of the display.

The magister grinned from ear to ear. “It appears I still have a few of my bravo tricks up my sleeve. Here, child.” He spun Needle around and presented its hilt to Arya. She reached out and took it gingerly, feeling a deal safer now it was back in her hand.

“Did you know,” the magister began as Arya was about to slide her sword back into her belt, “that castle-forged swords always bear a mark. A Westerosi tradition, of course, each armament made by a keep’s smith will bear that man’s unique insignia. Now, my partner and I are fond of such nuggets of information, myself as a collector of swords, and he as a collector of knowledge.” He leant forward, his immense chair creaking. “I’m not sure if you are aware, child, but your bravo’s blade bears the mark of Winterfell, the icy fortress of House Stark. To me, that begs one question: how did an orphan boy living on the streets of King’s Landing come across such a unique weapon forged in a keep thousands of leagues away?”

Arya froze, eyes darting from Mikken’s mark on the pommel of her sword to the eyes of Magister Illyrio Mopatis. He knows, she thought. By the gods, he knows. She did not know what to do.

“He has family in the North,” Ser Barristan repeated. “Perhaps he found it somewhere and brought it south with him. Lord Stark brought a full retinue of Northmen to the capital, the child may have even found it on a corpse during the fighting.” The old knight projected confidence, but the fat magister seemed unconvinced.

“You have not enquired after the blade’s origin, ser?”

“I have not. I am escorting him to safety, not unearthing every secret within his life.”

Magister Illyrio stroked his oiled beard. “I see. Actually, I do not. A sword such as his is not made for household soldiers, though you know this already, I am thinking. Here is my proposal: the sword was made via custom order by one who knew the smith well.” His beady eyes bore holes into Arya. “What say you, boy?”

Arya’s words caught in her throat. She had not taken her hand off Needle, her palm was slick with sweat. He is unarmed , she thought, big, and slow. The blade was already drawn, all it would require was a quick slash across his throat …

Selmy tightened his grip on his wooden staff, feeling the conversation slipping out of his control. He took a step forward. “Magister Illyrio, the child has no bearing on our goals. They will leave quietly on the morrow and not bother you again, I swear it.”

Mopatis flashed a yellow smile. “That is where you and I disagree, my friend.” The magister rose from his seat with unexpected ease. “I believe this child is of great importance, and I am not appreciating your clumsy attempts to hide that fact.” He moved around the table slowly. “We are partners now, Ser Barristan, and that means we must have trust. Tell me the child’s name.”

Ser Barristan heard the crack of burning logs, the choked screams of a son watching his father die. Selmy kept his gaze fixed on the fat man, knuckles turning white where he held his staff in place.

Magister Illyrio continued around the table, each careful step bringing him closer. “Well? I ask only given what our mutual friend has told me. You see, you were not the only Westerosi noble seeking passage from King’s Landing, ser. A small, thin, boyish girl was also looking to escape. She has not been sighted in over a week, most think she perished on the streets of the capital, but we both know the truth …”

Their host now stood in front of them both, he folded his arms across his vast chest, a smirk spread across his wet lips. “So I ask again, ser, what is the child’s name?”

If one Hand can die, why not a second?

If one Hand can die, why not a second?

If one man can die, why not a second?

Arya Stark did not run. Arya Stark did not hide. Arya Stark drew up all her strength, and looked the fat man in the eye.

“My name is Arya Stark of Winterfell, and you shall not kill me.”

She was desperate and full of fear, but most of all she was angry. Arya narrowed her eyes at their host and pulled herself up tall. Needle rose smooth as silk, she readjusted her grip and made to swing towards the magister.

It all seemed to happen in a flash. Arya’s strike towards Magister Illyrio was over before it had begun, a staff appeared and knocked her blow aside. Two guards emerged either side of the magister, swords drawn. Ser Barristan wrenched Arya back, and the fat man raised a hand, both guards sheathed their weapons.

The old knight’s grip was a vise on her shoulder. “Gods above, child, have you gone mad?!”

Arya struggled to be free. “He killed him! It was him! I heard it!”

Ser Barristan turned her to face him. “Killed who? What are you talking about?”

“Father! I saw the magister walking beneath the Red Keep with another, they were talking about the war and a princess and about killing the Hand! So it was him, I know it was!” Arya’s breath was ragged once she’d finished, and she could feel her heart pounding in her chest, threatening to burst out.

Selmy searched her eyes, looking for the truth. “When was this, Arya?”

“Weeks ago, before everything went wrong. I was chasing a cat and then there were monsters in the dark and then there was a tunnel and then there were two people walking with torches.” She pointed to the fat man. “He was one of them, I know he was!”

Ser Barristan looked to the magister. “Is this true?”

Magister Illyrio’s eyes were more curious than malicious. “My, my, girl, you truly are full of surprises.” He turned to the old knight. “Yes, it is true. My partner and I had met to discuss matters across the narrow sea. We had thought our location discreet, clearly we were mistaken.” He chuckled dryly, as though he had not had a sword pointed at him mere moments before. “I do wonder how the Lord Hand’s daughter ended up in such an unseemly place.”

“It was part of my training,” she said, “I went down below the keep and that’s where I heard you talking about my father.”

“True again, your lord father was discussed at length. He was the Hand of the King, after all, a man worthy of much discussion.”

“You talked about killing him!”

“A third truth, for your father was most disruptive to our plans at that time.”

Arya was shaking. “So you did it?”

“Killed him?” The fat man smirked. “No.”

“Liar!” she roared, trying to reach him in vain as the old knight held firm.

“You are upset, my lady. I take it you have not told her the truth of her father’s betrayal, ser?”

Confused, she looked up at the old knight through shining eyes, and saw his strength falter. “You know?”

Ser Barristan sighed. “I do, child. I was there, and I tell you now, the magister had no hand in that treachery. After King Robert’s death, your father confronted Queen Cersei in the throne room over Joffrey’s bastardy. He had wanted to take her and the boy without bloodshed, and had thought the loyalty of the Gold Cloaks was secure, but the Lannisters had reached them first, so when the time came they betrayed Lord Stark and slaughtered his men. He was the only survivor, captured when Littlefinger put a dagger to his throat, and later tossed into the Black Cells to rot.

“You know as much as I of what happened by the Great Sept. Whatever plans the queen and her council had for your father were dashed when that vile boy gave his command. The Lannisters played us all for fools, child.”

“Some more than others,” said the magister. “My partner did everything within his power to keep your father alive, my lady. It grieves me that his efforts were in vain.”

Arya did not really hear Mopatis as he spoke, her eyes were fixed on the old knight. “Why … Why didn’t you help him?”

Selmy heard the screams again, the king’s cackling laughter. “I was too weak,” he whispered. Too old. Too scared. Too weak.

She felt his grip slacken, but Arya had no interest in fighting any more. She felt so very tired.

“Lady Stark,” said the magister, “I hold no ill will against you, just to be clear. I understand vengeance well, and I have no interest in quelling that flame within you. Not at all.” He smiled at her. “Your vengeance will be a valuable tool, oh, yes.”

Arya looked up at him. “What do you mean?”

Magister Illyrio reached for his goblet and took another sip of wine. “How much do you know of Ser Barristan’s plans, my lady?”

She looked to the old knight, though his eyes remained downcast. “A little,” she answered.

“I take it you understand he is not in Essos for a holiday?”

She nodded. “He’s searching for dragons.”

Mopatis inclined his head. “Just so. It is a search my partner and I are aiding him with. You see, your knightly guardian is far more than a mere old man, he is a symbol - a true knight, something you Westerosi value highly. When he stands alongside the resurgent Targaryens, all of the Seven Kingdoms will sit up and take notice.”

Ser Barristan did not react to the flattering words, and as far as Arya could see, he looked little and less like the storybook figure the fat man was painting him as. She chose to keep quiet, too, though many questions buzzed about her head.

“We all have our parts to play in returning order and justice to Westeros, yes.” A moment passed. “So, you know of the good knight’s cause, but do you know where he will be headed?”

She recalled what the old knight had said on the ship. “The Dothraki Sea.”

Illyrio chuckled. “Once, yes, but much and more has happened since then. News travels slowly once one leaves the Free Cities,” he explained. “Ser Barristan now sails for Qarth.”

Arya frowned. “Qarth? Is that a city?”

“Indeed. Many call it the Queen of Cities.”

She had never heard of a city called Qarth. “Is that where the king is?”

“Queen,” the magister corrected.

That caught the old knight’s attention. “Queen? What has befallen Viserys?”

A strange flicker passed over the magister’s round face. “Dothraki, I’ve been told. The king drew live steel in Vaes Dothrak, and that did for him.”

“Queen Daenerys,” muttered Ser Barristan.

“Who is not yet in Qarth, in truth. Her husband’s khalasar still roams the Dothraki Sea, so Ser Barristan shall arrive in Qarth and ride north from there. If he is fortunate, the girl may already be in the city to meet him, but if not a host the size of Khal Drogo’s should not prove too difficult to find.”

It sounded like a thrilling adventure to Arya. Distant queens, horse lords, wondrous cities, and a legendary knight at the centre of it. But Arya was done with adventures, all she wanted to do was go home.

“Now, child, I spoke before of each of us having a role to play. To win the loyalty of the North for Queen Daenerys, that is yours, my lady. You will return home at the queen’s side and rally your father’s bannermen in her name. Your brother is already at war with the boy king, with the might of the queen’s dothraki at his side, victory will be assured.” He looked down at her, almost pensively. “You are the key to such a victory, my lady. If you return home now you risk death and defeat for all those you love. Ask yourself what your brother would rather have: his sister alone, or his sister with an army of fearless warriors thirsty for Lannister blood?

“I do not presume the choice to be a simple one, but Westeros is at war, nowhere is truly safe until the fighting is finished, and the fighting shall only be finished once a Targaryen sits the Iron Throne again. Until then, I say the safest place for you is right here, my lady. I promise no ill shall befall you whilst you reside within these walls, you shall be my honoured guest, and treated as such.”

Arya chewed her lip, her mind spinning with fears and questions. She didn’t care who was king so long as it wasn’t Joffrey, and her father must have fought the Targaryens for a reason, so why would she want to bring them back? But then she knew Robb would welcome more men, especially if they hated the Lannisters as much as the magister claimed, and there was no way they’d tell her off if she brought an army to help them fight. Mother might be so pleased she’d even let me keep Needle …

“How long will it be before she arrives?”

The magister gave a colossal shrug. “Months, a year at most. It is never wise to speculate on the travel speed of royalty.”

It had already been too long since Arya had seen her family, the thought of waiting a full year before going home made her feel sick. “I can’t wait that long.”

Magister Illyrio’s face hardened. “Just as I cannot allow a child to travel alone through a war-torn kingdom.”

Arya gritted her teeth. “Why should I care what you think? You can’t keep me here against my will! I won’t be your prisoner.” She turned to the old knight. “Tell him. Tell him I need to go home now.” She grabbed hold of Ser Barristan’s shoulder and shook it. “Tell him!” He could not even meet her gaze. “Ser Barristan, tell him!”

In Selmy’s mind the wildfire burned and burned and burned. “Arya …”

She let go of him and staggered backwards. “No … You promised …”

The magister pushed away from the table. “My lady.”

“No! You can’t do this! Please! You have to let me go!”

Magister Illyrio gestured to the guards. “Escort Lady Stark back to her chambers, and take care, she's had a long day.”

 

 

Magister Illyrio Mopatis did not pay his guards to spy or eavesdrop, pry or ask questions. Haran was doing none of those things, certainly not when the old Westerosi knight passed him for the third time that morning. His mind was a blank canvas, no blot or blemish there to cause distraction. His old master used to say a good guard was akin to a blade forged six feet tall, big and bright and eye-catching, there to deter the bold and the stupid. Its edge should be rarely used, but still kept sharp, for when it is needed there can be no hesitation.

If the old man gave him cause, Haran knew he would not hesitate. His eyes never passed over the knight, giving him no reason to suspect he was being watched. They stayed fixed on the middle distance, and did not stray. He knew what was expected of him, what he was paid for, what he was made for.

The wooden staff clacked against the plaza’s cobbles, the Westerosi eyed him for half a heartbeat before disappearing from view. Haran shifted the grip on the shaft of his spear, eyes staring straight ahead, just as he’d been taught.

Barristan Selmy was restless.

He slept less and less with age, but last night had been particularly fruitless. He felt a mite foolish admitting it, but he thought the likeliest cause was nerves. Ser Barristan could not recall the last time he had felt nervous. Pyke? The Trident? To him, it was a sensation reserved for the eve of battle, and yet it had come to him as he lay abed last night. 

There was no danger here, no threat of death, Selmy was safe behind the thick walls of the magister’s manse. It had pestered him no end, making his insomnia only worsen, but eventually Ser Barristan realised the cause.

The Saduleon and its sister ships sailed from Pentos today. Ser Barristan was leaving.

The voyage across the narrow sea had been over quickly, five days all told. Selmy’s trip to Qarth was a far different, and far more daunting prospect. Months of travel, starting from Pentos, with stops in Tyrosh, Lys, Volantis, and New Ghis, before at last arriving at their destination. It would be the longest Ser Barristan had spent at sea by a long distance, and he was most grateful for a sturdy constitution. There would be other hardships to face, but not having to fear seasickness was a sure relief.

Ser Barristan would sail on the great cog Saduleon, captained by the Pentoshi Groleo. He had met the captain and his crew briefly, and they seemed an amiable bunch with ample experience to safely traverse the waters of the Summer Sea. The only other non-crew member travelling aboard would be a pit fighter by the name of Strong Belwas - a huge Ghiscari eunuch with nut-brown skin and a massive belly dappled with pale scars. He was heading to Qarth to offer his services as a protector to Queen Daenerys, much in the same way as Selmy, though he was not sure the two men could look more different. The pit fighter seemed mostly content either eating or fighting. A simple outlook for a simple man, Selmy thought, not unkindly.

His host, the Magister Illyrio Mopatis, was an altogether different matter. When they met, Lord Varys had been effusive in his praise of the fat man, but Ser Barristan remained less than convinced. The magister was a trader of spices, gemstones, dragon bone, and cheddar. Selmy liked him little and trusted him even less, yet he had been true to his word thus far in their dealings, and he held faith in his own value to Mopatis’s goals enough to feel secure in his safety. Selmy moved through the magister’s world now. A world of secrets and subterfuge, of plots and mummery - one Ser Barristan felt ill at ease within, yet must navigate all the same.

The fear that such unsavoury types were with Queen Daenerys or would be with her soon would not leave Ser Barristan’s mind. She needed loyal voices to guide her back to her throne, not those driven by greed or control who would use the girl as nothing more than a steed to ride into the halls of power. In fairness, Daenerys had survived the ordeals of life within a Dothraki khalasar, and, according to the magister’s missives, had even thrived in her role as khaleesi at Khal Drogo’s side.

Mayhaps I afford her too little credit, Selmy mused. In his mind, the queen was a delicate little thing in need of protection, but was he wrong? Daenerys had spent her life on the streets of the Free Cities fleeing from Robert’s knives, it was not the sort of upbringing to breed a dainty princess in.

Yet any faint reassurance Ser Barristan might take from that was lost thanks to her brother’s death. He had learned the grisly details from Magister Illyrio. Prince Viserys had broken sacred Dothraki tradition by drawing naked steel in their capital city of Vaes Dothrak, before using the sword to threaten his sister and the khal’s unborn son. This had earned the boy a gruesome death, molten gold poured over his head so no blood was spilled.

It left a pit in his stomach. The queen’s own flesh and blood, a man Khal Drogo had agreed to seat upon the Iron Throne, slain by his own hands in front of the girl. So long as Daenerys was surrounded by such savages, each day that passed was another one she was in danger. His desperation was fuel, and his path was finally clear.

Daenerys Targaryen.

A monarch worth serving.

Ser Barristan tried to picture the young queen, but as hard as he tried he could not stop seeing Arya in her place. He knew what he ought to be seeing, a girl of fourteen with silver-gold hair and violet eyes, yet the girl’s hair kept darkening, and the colour drained from her eyes, until the long face of Arya Stark was looking back at him coldly, judging him heartless and guilty.

He sighed. “There was nothing I could have done,” said Ser Barristan, speaking his thoughts into the empty courtyard. A few birds perched in branches high above his head chirped their replies.

Selmy kept walking, hoping to outpace his painful thoughts. His staff clacked lightly against the courtyard’s floor, its rhythm helped to soothe his mind. Deep green plants hung over the cobbled path, with here and there a bright flower that stood against the verdant crowd. The cobbles soon gave way to hard-packed dirt with gravel that crunched beneath his boots.

The manse’s gardens were larger than those found in the Red Keep, a great swathe of plant life from all parts of Essos. Gravel paths snaked through the greenery like roots through soil, servants walked across them silently, tending to the riotous throng of flowers, shrubs, and trees. Like all parts of Magister Illyrio’s world, it was overly vast. Ser Barristan would have gotten lost half a hundred times had the fat man not given him a tour on his first morning at the manse.

The gardens were bright and sweet-smelling, opulently preened and lavishly displayed, though Selmy’s eyes were always drawn to the thick brick walls with their iron-spiked toppings. That spoke of the magister, too, and what it had to say did not sit well with him at all. It put him in mind of the trap plants found in far-flung Sothoryos, who lure in prey with enticing aromas before closing their jagged mouths tight once their meal was secure. Ser Barristan looked once more at the wall’s iron spikes, and saw them anew as the fangs of a predator waiting to strike. The only break he’d seen in the brickwork had been a metal gate hidden beneath a thicket of green ivy, near invisible if one were not aware of it already. The plant grew extensively across the walls of the manse, crawling across bricks like the fingers of some great green giant. 

Magister Illyrio had already begun to break his fast when Ser Barristan arrived. He was seated beneath a canopy overlooking the gardens, with Pentos and the harbour sprawling out beyond them. Selmy’s eyes were drawn to the view, but his companion seemed far more enamoured with the contents of his plate. Mopatis had just scooped the flesh of his boiled egg out of its shell when he noticed the knight enter.

“I hope you rested well before your journey, ser knight.” He popped the spoonful into his mouth, and swallowed. “It shall be a tiring voyage, make no mistake, but we all must suffer in our efforts for the realm, my friend.”

Selmy watched the fat man drizzle honey onto a slice of freshly-baked bread, and wondered what sort of suffering he had ever endured. Little and less , he decided. Suffering is a tale to tell over fine wine and rich cheese to men like him.

“Change ne’er comes without strife, magister.”

“Just so,” Mopatis said, “and forty-thousand Dothraki screamers can cause an awful lot of strife,” he added, chuckling. “Ah, what a sight that shall be. Queen Daenerys with her khal at her side, sweeping aside the squabbling kings and bringing peace and justice to Westeros at long last. It makes an old fool’s heart like mine swell with pride, yes.”

Did he say … “Kings?” asked Ser Barristan.

The fat man inclined his head. “Four of them, all told. I believe you are already well acquainted with King Joffrey, ser knight. The boy has been joined in royalty by his two uncles.”

Selmy was stunned. “Both of them?” He had expected Lord Stannis to announce his kingship eventually, but hearing his brother had done the same was truly a shock. “Renly has no claim. Stannis is the elder by near a decade.”

The magister sipped his wine. “Mayhaps the Tyrell swords at Lord Renly’s back have emboldened him. A hundred-thousand soldiers is a most impressive dowry, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ser Barristan shook his head. Renly was ever one for flights of fancy, but this? It reeked of Mace Tyrell. “‘Tis a worrying precedent to set. The eldest male must inherit first, lest we devolve into savagery. After all, what would stop Renly’s second or third born son from following in his father’s footsteps upon his death?”

Magister Illyrio bit into a grilled pepper with a crunch. “All the more reason to find our queen, I am thinking.”

Joffrey, Stannis, and Renly. Ser Barristan spoke up, “That is only three. Who is the fourth?”

The magister gave a faint smile. “Robb Stark, The King in the North.”

Ser Barristan ran a hand through his beard, hoping to mask the blinding shock he felt. There had been no King in the North for almost three hundred years. Gods be good, how much has Westeros changed since I left? His thoughts turned quickly to Arya, precisely where he didn’t want them to go. “It appears you have a princess residing with you.”

Mopatis shrugged. “It is not the first time, my friend.”

“This surely changes things,” he said. “The girl is royalty now, she should be with her brother the king.”

The magister left a silence as he peeled an egg. “Lady Arya is safe here, regardless of her title. She shall return to Westeros with Queen Daenerys.”

Selmy shook his head. “To negotiate with her royal brother on behalf of another monarch? That is folly, magister. A lord swearing allegiance to a queen is far different to a king putting aside their crown.”

Magister Illyrio chuckled. “You speak of folly, ser, I shall counter with history. A Targaryen crossed the narrow sea and faced a King in the North before, correct?”

“A different Targaryen,” Ser Barristan countered. “With dragons.”

The magister bowed slightly. “Just so.  Some say the boy only took the crown from a lack of worthy choices, mayhaps Queen Daenerys can offer him one.” He spread his hands. “Regardless, the girl shall be safe, and lack for nothing. A better fate than travelling alone across a war-torn land, yes. You shall see her again before you know it, my friend.”

Ser Barristan tried to picture Arya Stark sitting patiently in the magister’s manse, it was a fruitless effort. “The girl is wild, magister, she does not strike me as one to wait patiently against her will.”

“A fair point,” Mopatis conceded. “I cannot say I’ve had many ten-year-old girls draw steel against me.” He chuckled, wobbling as he did. “Yet such edges can be smoothed out with time.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Smoothed out?”

“That is what you Westerosi say, yes? Training, teachings, what have you,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Such ways are well-known. The girl is a highborn lady, it is best she acts like one when the queen arrives, I am thinking.”

Ser Barristan felt his stomach tighten. “What sort of teachings?”

Illyrio paused, and he watched the old knight carefully. Has he lost his nerve? he wondered. We have no use for a legend turned craven in his old age … “If it is as you say, and the girl refuses to settle, discipline shall be introduced. None more than is necessary, but discipline nonetheless. Lady Arya must be reminded of her station in life, and what role she must play for the betterment of her home.” He smiled disarmingly. “I am no sadist, to take pleasure in such things, but needs must for the good of the realm. I have heard it said the girl has always been … difficult . No doubt Lady Stark and her son will be most grateful for my efforts, and should some ill befall the girl in her struggles to be domesticated, then I do not imagine the king would miss his true sister all that much when he meets her well-trained replacement. Girls change much at her age, and her make and measure is common enough, I am thinking.”

Some ill? Replacement? Selmy choked back his anger. “And if she escapes before then?”

“My walls are high and thick.”

“So were those in the Red Keep,” Ser Barristan countered. “What happens if she boards a ship again and sails far away?”

The fat man flashed a yellow-toothed smile. “Pentos is my city, ser knight. No-one leaves her without my knowledge.”

Magister Illyrio Mopatis did not pay his guards to spy or eavesdrop, pry or ask questions. Haran was doing none of those things, certainly not when the old Westerosi knight passed him for the fourth time that morning. His eyes stayed fixed on the middle distance, and did not stray. He knew what was expected of him, what he was paid for, what he was made for.

The wooden staff whistled through the air, and cracked against the eunuch’s bald head. His dark eyes did not leave their spot, even as his body crumpled and darkness crept across his vision. Haran was unconscious by the time his chain of iron keys was lifted from his belt. He did not feel a thing.

The red comet burned above them, a raw red slash against the blue sky. Ser Barristan glanced up at it now, and felt something within himself settle. It was a guide from the gods, pointing east towards Daenerys, but Arya’s quarters were in the same direction, nestled within the eastern side of the manse. They are my destiny, he realised then. Both of them. Selmy quickened his pace, for both girls needed his protection, both girls were in danger.

His haste took him into a roofed courtyard and up a flight of stairs, towards Arya’s chamber. Ser Barristan knew the way, and knew of the guard posted outside the door, as well. He approached slowly, so as not to draw suspicion, though Selmy knew he would not have long until the last guard was discovered. The girl’s chambers overlooked the small courtyard he had just passed through, with the back window facing the city on the other side. Ser Barristan stopped at the large polished oak door, the guard stood by it was bald with a rounded face. That bald, rounded face turned to look at him.

Selmy cleared his throat. “Might I see her before I depart?” he asked in his best High Valyrian. The trip east would allow him to practice it if naught else.

The guard gave a curt nod and moved to open the door, pulling the iron handle backwards and causing a low rumble from the wood. Arya Stark was in her chambers … just about. She had fashioned a rope from her linen bedding and it had been draped out of her window. One skinny leg was slung over the windowsill, her head snapped back at the noise of their entrance, her grey eyes went wide as saucers.

Uh-oh.

The guard reacted quickest, shouting something in High Valyrian she couldn’t understand, and moving into the room. Arya chose to go for a quick exit, swinging her other leg over and starting her descent. She gripped the linen tight, and hoped she had tied it well enough for it to hold her weight. But no sooner had she looped her legs around her makeshift rope than the guard took hold of the other end and tugged it back hard, sending Arya skidding back onto the cold tile floor of her chambers.

The girl groaned in pain after landing, and Ser Barristan knew he had to act. He moved quickly towards the guard, and brought his staff down hard against his back, forcing the eunuch onto one knee. He cursed under his breath, for he had hoped the blow would knock him prone.

“Stupid old man,” the guard growled, reaching for his sword. Selmy swung again, wood met fingers, and the eunuch cried out in pain. Desperate, the guard pushed up from one knee and lunged at Ser Barristan. He spun away in a swirl of robes, and put his back to the open door, poised to dodge another charge when a white sheet twisted tight suddenly looped itself around the guard’s neck.

The eunuch jerked back suddenly, panicked at his airway’s sudden obstruction. Selmy saw the scrawny arms of Arya Stark tensed and straining to keep the linen in place, and he knew they would not win out. Ser Barristan aimed another blow directly for the guard’s chest, hoping to knock the wind from his lungs and double him over. The strike did just that, sending the eunuch to his knees, wheezing. Selmy moved quickly to Arya’s side and took charge of the fabric, holding it taught until the guard’s body went still.

Ser Barristan slumped backwards, and slowly caught his breath. Selmy shook his head, and cursed his age and his rotten luck.

The small voice of Arya Stark came from behind him. “Why did you help me?”

He sighed, and it was the sorry sigh of an old, old man. Ser Barristan could feel the girl’s eyes staring at him, and he knew he had to answer. “Because …” Selmy wanted desperately to explain himself, explain his failures, explain his hopes and dreams and reasons, but the child deserved better than that. “Because it was right .”

Ser Barristan turned to the girl, saw anger and frustration on her long face. She balled her hands into fists. “You’re … confusing,” she finished.

Selmy chuckled. “You’ve called me worse.”

“What are you doing here?” asked Arya angrily. “You’re meant to be sailing off to find your stupid queen.”

He sat up, got his staff from where he’d dropped it, and nodded. “A ship awaits me in the harbour as we speak.”

“Then why aren’t you on it? Why are you here?”

Ser Barristan smiled. “Because here is where I need to be.”

Arya screwed up her face. “Well … it can’t be!”

“Why not?”

She waved a hand at the open window. “Because here’s where I’m making my escape!”

He looked down at the crumpled pile of white sheets. “A clever notion, I’ll grant you. Where did you come up with it?”

A bit of the fight left the girl, and her ears reddened. “It was from a story, one of Old Nan’s ones. It was about a boy who had to escape from an evil wizard’s tower, so he used his linens to scale down from a window and win his freedom.”

“I see. ‘Tis a bright idea, a pity it would never have worked.”

Arya folded her arms, and huffed. “It would’ve! The sheets almost reached the bottom so I’d have been fine!”

“That is not why your escape would have failed, my lady. I fear you would have made the same mistake I did, and faced the same fate.”

Her grey eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“We both forgot what city we are in, and who truly controls it. The magister is a prince in all but name; there is only one ship docked in the harbour he will not stop, child, and it does not sail west.”

His ship, Arya realised, that sails far, far from home. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“You can,” the old knight insisted. “You just have to be strong.”

“But …” she felt tears welling just thinking of them, “my family …”

Something in Ser Barristan’s expression shifted. “Your brother is a king, now.”

Arya gasped. “What?”

“Robb,” he explained, “he is King in the North. Chosen by his lords and his knights.”

Her mind was spinning. Robb is a king? Arya pictured him as she’d seen him last, with snowflakes melting in his hair. The memory felt like a bolt in her chest. “How can that be?”

“There was no one else. Joffrey killed your father, Renly has no true claim to the throne, and his elder brother Stannis declared his kingship late. Robb and his bannermen came south to free Lord Eddard from imprisonment, but his death left them without a clear goal. Secession from the Iron Throne has filled that void for now, but it will not last. Robb must bend the knee eventually, but only to a monarch he deems worthy. It is my hope that Daenerys Targaryen can be this monarch, and … I would add your voice to mine regarding the matter when the time comes, Arya. If you agree, of course.”

She sniffed. “You mean it, don’t you? I can’t go home …”

“I would that it were not so, child, but yes. Any ship you board alone will be stopped in the harbour, caught and pulled back to shore, or boarded at its first stop for you to be dragged off it by the magister’s men.”

“But what if he stops your ship?”

“He won’t,” the old knight said firmly. “Illyrio will not risk delaying our journey, nor will he risk my wroth. He needs me just as much as I need him. We are at a stalemate, of sorts, and it is within this impasse that I will smuggle you from here.”

Arya chewed her lip, still not convinced. “But …” she trailed off, uncertain of her own uncertainty. It was all so much to take in …

Selmy knelt before Arya, and put a hand on her shoulder. “Hear me now, child, and you may never need hear me again. I want you to come east with me. I wished anything but not long ago, I feared the dangers I was certain to face and wished to spare you of them, but the true danger is here, my lady, and he is far from a simple cheesemonger. 

“All I have ever done, I have done in the hopes of keeping you safe, and getting you back to your family hale and whole. I had thought this manse, far from the fighting, was the best place for you, but I was wrong. My error could have cost you dearly, Arya, and for that I am truly sorry.” Selmy dropped his voice. “Mopatis is not the man I thought he was, and I fear what plans he has for Queen Daenerys. He is no friend of ours, Arya, know that. We must reach the queen and warn her of him, of his true nature. Daenerys has an army of Dothraki at her back, so the magister will not dare defy her when she tells him that you are to be returned safely to your home. I am valuable to his plans, but the queen is priceless.”

“Would she really do that?”

“It is my devout hope. We will go to her, tell her of the ills done by House Lannister, of a kingdom at war with itself and not a shred of justice to be found. If she is good and true then she will swear to see you home safely there and then.”

Arya thought of all she had heard of the Mad King. She is his daughter … “What if the queen isn’t good and true?”

Ser Barristan’s mouth tightened. “There is that chance, aye, but we know for a certainty that the magister is not good. Would you sooner wait here with him?”

“No,” she blurted out. “Never. But still …”

The old knight nodded. “I will not say the same thoughts have not crossed my mind, Arya; that is why I propose we do not uncover ourselves right away. Instead, we shall watch, and wait, and all being well have no fear revealing our true names to her; if not, then she shall have never known us truly when we quietly depart.” He squeezed her shoulder. “It shall be like the story we kept to in King’s Landing, and on the Young Lady.”

“So you’d be Arstan and I’d be ‘Arry?”

“Perhaps … though the orphan boy has no real reason to travel so far east.” Ser Barristan ran a hand through his beard. “But a young page hungry for fame and glory might …”

A page? “What’s a page?”

“A knight might keep a squire, to help with his weapons and armour, tend to his horse, and even accompany him into battle,” he explained. “A page is a step below that, if you like; they serve the knight in less intensive jobs, be it fetching food or serving his wine, and they do not enter the battlefield, for they would be too young to do so.”

“I can fight in a battle!” She insisted loudly.

“One day, perhaps.”

She screwed up her face and cried out, “I’m almost one-and-ten!”

Selmy smiled. “You are fierce, girl.”

Arya crossed her arms. I don’t want to be fierce, she decided, I want to fight!

“I fear you have missed the wider point,” he replied. “A page is not just a mere servant forbidden from entering battle. It is a position of education; a place from which a highborn son might learn swordplay from knight and squire alike.”

“You’ll train me?” Arya asked in a quiet voice, as if the offer were some skittish animal she might’ve startled into fleeing.

“At least until we reveal ourselves to the queen. Whether she would want a highborn girl training for knighthood under her watch, I cannot say.”

She nodded, seeing the vision come together in her mind. I’ll come back stronger, as strong as Robb! And I’ll stick Needle through Joffrey’s stupid face, and the queen’s, and the Hound’s, and Ser Ilyn’s, and the fat man, too! They’ll all pay! Arya looked at Ser Barristan, and nodded. “I’ll go, ser. I’ll help you get your queen.”

Relief washed over his wrinkled face, and the old knight ran a hand through Arya’s shortened hair. “Thank you, child. Thank you.” He rose. “You will need a name.”

Arya frowned. “Can I not be ‘Arry?”

“The name is known to the magister and his men,” explained Ser Barristan.

Of course it is, stupid! She thought of what she wanted the page to be. The page would be strong. The page would be brave. The page would never, ever run. At that, Arya had a name. “Mycah,” she said, rubbing away her tears. “I’ll be Mycah.”

Magister Illyrio Mopatis turned from the window, and sighed. He had watched silently from above as Ser Barristan and Lady Arya stole out of the old, hidden gate and made their way to the harbour. The escape had been well-planned, and would require punishments to be meted out on the guards who’d let it happen. A small tragedy when held against what he had lost.

“A pity,” the magister said. “We could have done much together, Lady Stark.”

His seneschal Tregio hovered at his side. “Shall I send word to Captain Groleo?”

He dismissed the seneschal with a wave. “Don’t bother. Let the old fool have his victory; if the gods are good we shan’t see either of them again.” Mopatis smiled, and it was a wicked thing, indeed. “If not, Prince Aegon has been raised to understand justice most well, my friend.”

 

 

Within the hull of the great cog Saduleon, Arya Stark lay on her own bed in her own cabin, thinking of home.

Each day that passed, each port they stopped in, each time she awoke and for a brief, quiet moment thought she was back in Winterfell, made her longing worsen.

Some days were easier than others, mostly those when there was something to do, something to tire herself out with. When Arya had time to think, all she ever thought of was home. A silly, angry part of her would curse the gods for putting her on this path, or Ser Barristan for his mistakes and his lies, or even herself for forgiving him.

None of it mattered. She was here, and home grew further with each passing day, no matter how much she wished it were not so.

Still, Arya knew there were worse places to be, and worse people to be with. 

Once the three ships had set sail, she had not let her guard down until they were well past the Bay of Pentos, and out onto the Narrow Sea; always fearing that some galley was chasing them down to take her back to the magister’s manse. But that galley had never come. Days turned to weeks turned to months, and they heard neither hide nor hair of Magister Illyrio Mopatis.

Arya would see him sometimes, when she dreamt, and it was always his beady eyes finding her that shook her awake, most times in a cold sweat. Pentos was far away, but the magister’s presence lingered on like some foul smell. The ships they sailed on were his, the crews that manned them were his, the cargo in their holds were his.

The only two men not on the crew were both hired by the magister, and Strong Belwas was bought for his use like a suit of armour. The great bald pit fighter was a slave who had travelled all across Essos, greatly prized for his ability to spill a man’s blood. Belwas had been sold from Qohor to Pentos, and was now on his way to Qarth to serve the dragon queen. Daenerys Targaryen had not paid for the man, however, and Arya could not help but wonder which side he would be on if she and the magister turned against one another.

Slavery was outlawed in Westeros, so Arya did not know what bonds and oaths Belwas would fall back on when faced with such a choice. The man was, admittedly, rather simple, so there was every chance he would merely follow the one who asked him nicest, or promised him the most liver and onions once the fighting was over. Belwas really liked liver and onions.

Ser Barristan had introduced her to the pit fighter when they first boarded Saduleon, telling the man that Arya was to be his page. After explaining what a page was to the big-bellied eunuch, Belwas had let out a deep chortle, and said, in his Ghiscari drawl, “Mi-car will make good serving boy for Belwas.”

“I’m not a serving boy!” she had yelled back. “I’m a page.”

He had just laughed again, and slapped his great belly with all its pale scars. “Mi-car page will get Belwas wine then, like good little page.”

His common tongue was as ugly as he was, and Arya had wanted to hit him then, but Whitebeard gave her a sharp glance and she’d relented, heading below deck to fill a flagon for the big man.

She decided she liked the great bald pit fighter after spending a few days in his service. He was blunt and crude, but never cruel - Arya thought he might be too stupid to be cruel, but she didn’t mind that. He was Ghiscari, from the city of Meereen in Slaver’s Bay, so he spoke little of the common tongue. What he did speak was drenched in a thick drawl that ranged from difficult to outright impossible to understand.

Half the time his instructions had to be translated from High Valyrian via his squire Whitebeard whenever he forgot Mycah could not understand the language, or when he grew too frustrated at his page’s inability to understand his accent. But where others might curse or hit her, Belwas only bellowed out a laugh, slapped his belly, and told her she needed to learn a proper tongue if she wanted to stay in Essos. She didn’t need Belwas to remind her of that, it was clear whenever they pulled into port.

Whitebeard - the nickname given to Ser Barristan by Belwas, which had been quickly adopted by the crew (and Arya) - had been teaching her bits and pieces, but it was slow going. After months of travel and teaching Arya had little more of the language than she had started with. She wanted to learn, but it was deathly dull, and whenever Whitebeard came to her with quill and paper instead of sword and shield, Arya could not help but feel disappointed. She half-suspected the old man agreed with her. He was no maester, of that there could be no doubt.

It was those lessons that helped pass time aboard the Saduleon best. Arya always felt better with a sword in her hand, either her practice one or Needle, it made no matter. It gave her purpose, it gave her power. So long as she held a weapon no one could hurt her, at least not before she hurt them first.

The old knight had kept his promise, and the two had trained every other day, dancing up and down the deck of the Saduleon, swords twirling. Sometimes, Strong Belwas would watch, and sometimes the pit fighter would take up arms himself and show Arya how the dance was done in the red sands of the Meereenese fighting pits. Seeing how different the styles of water dancer, knight, and pit fighter were made Arya want nothing more than to travel across Essos learning as many variations as she could. Later, she told herself. Once we’ve found the dragon queen and I know my family are safe. 

Talk of Daenerys Targaryen had grown and grown the further east they went. What had started as whispers in Tyrosh had become excited mutterings in Lys. Arya half expected them to be shouting the queen’s name from the rooftops when they eventually reached Qarth.

It was odd that a claimant to the throne of a foreign kingdom had gotten such interest so far from their own realm, and Arya wondered what it was about the queen that had caused it. Mayhaps it was something she would learn upon meeting her. They say she is beautiful, but Lys was full of beautiful people. Arya had been most unnerved by it when they pulled into the island’s port. Everywhere she looked, the people were pale-skinned, silver-haired, and lovely. Their eyes were purple, lilac, and pale blue, their dresses fine, made of bright silks that glittered with gemstones.

She had walked the paved streets by Whitebeard’s side with eyes wide and mouth agape. Lys seemed like some mystical place from Old Nan’s stories, where the sun always shone and the waters were bright and blue and filled with fish. Palm and fruit trees grew big and bold, and lined the paths of cream-coloured stone that snaked across the island. Flower-dappled gardens were abundant, with colours bright and bountiful.

Lys was as beautiful as its people. Mayhaps that was why it was so beautiful. Does beauty beget beauty?  It was a different world to the one Arya lived in. She wondered what life was like for someone that pretty, that perfect. Easier, she imagined. The sight of the Lysene noblewomen had left a queer feeling in her belly, and Arya was grateful to have Mycah to fall back on. To all who saw her, she was a boy, and there had been a comfort to that when faced with a wall of feminine beauty she so sorely lacked. No one cared that Mycah’s hair was brown and messy, or that his face was long, or even that he was too skinny. He was a boy, and all that mattered was that he could swing his sword well, and the page got better at that with every day that passed.

While on the island, they had taken on food and water, done some trading using the coin provided by the magister, and were on their way east again, bound for Volantis. Lys had dwindled beyond the horizon some weeks ago, and the waters they sailed on had darkened and swallowed the whole world. 

For the past weeks, her whole life was blue.

It was in this great vastness that Arya’s thoughts turned to home.

Watching the waves crashing against Saduleon’s hull, she had first thought of the dark green waters of the North, then the churning icy sheets of the White Knife, which became the chilly blues of Winterfell’s moat (where she first learned to swim), and eventually the inky black pools of her home’s godswood, smoking in the cold Northern air. Arya would have given everything to dip her toes in those waters, to breathe in the scent of pine and oak and ash, feel the crunch of leaves beneath her feet, and hear the laughter of her brothers at play.

Arya had wept bitter tears that night, and when Whitebeard was busy with Captain Groleo the following day, her sadness had nowhere to go, so it settled over her heart, where it hung still. Some days were easier than others, but this one had been hard. The news they had gotten from a passing trader familiar to Groleo had kept him and the old man locked in the cabin all day, and when Arya had gone to check on them and ask about a lesson she had been sent away sharply.

She still did not understand why the two were so stressed. So her horsey husband’s dead, who cares? Queen Daenerys is the only one that matters. Arya sighed, and sat up in her bunk, fringe falling over her eyes as she hunched over, angry.  She slid off the bed, padded barefoot over to her boots and slipped them both on. Fetching her sword belt from where it hung on the bedpost, Arya quickly buckled it about her skinny waist and left her cabin, grabbing one of the practice posts they had bought in Tyrosh and dragging the thing with her above deck. It was made to resemble a man, with soft padding for arms, chest, and head, to better absorb the blows of a practice sword.

The overwhelming desire to hit something had taken hold, and the post would serve ably. Arya slid her practice sword from its sheath (also bought in Tyrosh), and had made ready to strike when a low voice rumbled out from behind her.

“Mi-car fetch good wine for Belwas. Night is good. Good for wine.”

She turned to see the pit fighter lounging on a bench, a big stupid smile on his big stupid face. For a man of his size, he could be deceptively quiet; Arya had no clue he was even up here. She scowled at him. “Get your own wine.” 

“Mi-car get wine,” he insisted. “That Mi-car job. Page job.”

“I never asked to be your stupid page! I just wanted to learn how to fight.”

Belwas grunted. “Whitebeard teach fight.”

“Whitebeard’s not here,” she snapped.

The pit fighter tilted his bald head. “Whitebeard here. Whitebeard look for Mi-car. Want talk to Mi-car.”

Arya tensed. “What? When?”

He waved a hand. “Before. Small before. Gone down to cabin now.”

Her anger lifted, and she felt sorry for shouting at the big man. “Thank you, Belwas. I’ll … I’ll get your wine once I’ve talked to him, okay?”

At the promise of wine, he smiled again. “Be quick, Mi-car page.”

She was, racing down the steps and over to Whitebeard’s cabin. Once outside his door, Arya hesitated, unsure what she wanted to say to the old man. Do I yell at him? Cry to him? Curse him? Thank him? What do I say, and what does he want to say to me? She was no closer to an answer when the cabin door swung open and Whitebeard appeared behind it, starting back slightly.

“Ar- Mycah,” he corrected quickly. “I was just coming to find you.”

“Oh … Belwas said you were looking for me earlier, so I thought I’d come find you, too.”

“Yes,” he said. “Why don’t you come in, child?”

She did, sitting across from the old man’s bed. Whitebeard sat on the bunk, grunting as he did. He looked tired. The ship rose and fell against the waves, the oil lantern that hung on the ceiling swung this way and that, sending its light dancing across the small room.

A moment’s silence passed before Whitebeard sighed, and said, “I am sorry for sending you away this morning. I took my frustration out on you, and that wasn’t fair.” He took a breath. “The news is grave indeed, and Groleo and I have discussed much and more regarding how best to respond to it, but the truth is we are powerless at the moment.”

Whitebeard’s tone was morose, and it confused her. “You sound like Daenerys is the one who died.”

His mouth tightened. “She very well could have, for all we know.”

Arya was lost. “You said she is pregnant with the khal’s son, Why would they want to kill her?”

“The Dothraki are not like the men of Westeros, or even most of Essos; they only respect strength. When Khal Drogo sickened and died, they will have abandoned him, and Daenerys too.” The old man stroked his beard. “Groleo says she is dead, that the Dothraki would not have allowed Drogo’s son to live and would have cut him from the queen’s belly to make certain. I pray to the gods that he is wrong, and that the girl has survived the ordeal, but we do not know.”

She can’t be dead, thought Arya. She can’t. Arya chewed her lip. “What are we going to do?”

“Our course has not changed, and as soon as we set anchor in Volantis, Groleo and I will seek the latest news.”

“What if …” She’s dead? We’ve come all this way for nothing? I left my family behind in vain? “the news is bad?” Arya asked eventually.

Whitebeard frowned. “That is much of what the captain and I have been discussing.” He leant closer. “If the news is bad, we will return to Pentos-”

“But-”

He cut off her protest. “But I will not let the magister lay a finger on you, Arya. We will go to your brother, and I will offer him my sword.” Ser Barristan put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. “You spoke well of him before, my lady, so I am sure he will make a fine king, presuming the worst, which I hope to death is not the case.”

Arya nodded. Just the mention of Robb had brought tears to the corners of her eyes. “I miss him,” she said underneath her breath. The ship, thousands of leagues from home, creaked and groaned. “I miss all of them.” The tears rolled down her cheeks in fat little droplets. “I wish I could see them just once, just to tell them I’m okay.” She sniffed. “They … They probably think I’m dead, don’t they?”

Barristan pulled her into a hug, fierce and strong. “Then imagine the look in their eyes when you come back to them safe and sound. Picture it, Arya, hold it close to your heart, and never, ever let it go.”

She looked up at the old knight through blurry eyes. “I’ll try,” she whispered, ”I will.” 

That night, as she lay asleep in her own bed in her own cabin within the hull of the great cog Saduleon, Arya Stark dreamt she was a direwolf, strong and brave and fearless, who could rip out a fat man’s throat like it was nothing.

It was a good dream.

 

 

"Dragons."

Whitebeard frowned at the grizzled captain's words. "Are you certain?"

The captain frowned. “There is no mistaking dragons, old man.” Irritation had replaced the wonder in his voice. “Three of them, as real as you or I. Talk is that the girl birthed them herself on the Dothraki Sea, that she traded the life of her horselord husband for the creatures.” His voice dropped. “Some say she used blood magic with the aid of a maegi to conduct a dark ritual, a great pyre that birthed dragons from stone.”

This is sounding less like the truth and more like one of Old Nan’s tales, thought Arya, though she held her tongue. Careless words could be costly in a place like this.

The Shallow Anchor was an inn on the western side of Volantis’s great harbour, nestled amongst the winding streets and slate-roofed buildings of the dock side. Its walls were stone brick; its roof soot-stained oak; its patrons mean-eyed sailors, looking for trouble. It was easy to miss for those unfamiliar with the city, but Groleo’s guidance had led them there without issue; it was an old drinking spot he and a few other captains frequented, including the one they sat across from now.

Lazo Brenys, their companion for this evening, had arrived in Volantis the same day they had aboard his own trading cog, Serissa’s Harp. He had finished his voyage east, and was on his way back after a journey trading on the Jade Sea. Brenys was an old friend of Groleo’s, a fellow captain, and had agreed to trade sailor’s talk for a taste of ale. The talk had lasted for two tankards and would soon be onto a third, judging from the amount left in the captain’s cup. “Lazo is a boastful old sod, but put some ale on his tongue and it’ll flap for hours,” Groleo had told them as they walked. “He’ll talk of the queen, yes, and of half-a-hundred other things, I am thinking.”

They had been chasing dragons since they’d arrived, and when news of a ship returning from Qarth captained by Groleo’s old drinking buddy reached them, it seemed too good an opportunity to pass up. Barristan had wanted to keep her on the ship and take Strong Belwas instead, but the big pit fighter begged off, and Arya was allowed to attend in his place, though only after agreeing to keep a low profile whilst they were out.

The squire stroked his long beard slowly, its point now fell below his neck. “Is she still in Qarth?”

“The girl had just arrived when we left to head west. The talk was that she had come to the city seeking an army to reclaim her father’s throne; might be she found it and is on her merry way. I know no more.”

She tried to picture the dragons in her mind, but all she had to work from were pictures she had seen in books, as well as the monstrous large skulls she’d stumbled across back in King’s Landing. But the captain has actually seen them … Arya’s curiosity got the better of her. “What do they look like?”

The captain gave her a curious glance before a smile spread across his rugged features. “Magic,” he said with wonder renewed. “Each a different colour; one black and crimson, one green and bronze, and one cream and gold. Little things, mind you, for they were but a few weeks old when I beheld them, but they were wondrous all the same.”

“Too small for conquest, then?”

“Just so, they were wyrms, not weapons.” The man took a sip of the ale they’d bought him. “Ah, but in a few years …” His eyes sparkled, imagining the glory of three fully grown dragons in flight.

Three dragons, same as Aegon the Conqueror. If there were ever a clearer sign they were sailing toward a just monarch Arya could not name it. She looked at the old squire; he seemed to share her thoughts.

“When did you leave Qarth?” Groleo, captain of Saduleon, asked.

His old friend shrugged. “A few moons’ turns. They will be larger now; though not so large to carry a queen, even one as small as her.”

“You know much of dragons, it seems,” Whitebeard said. “Is this a fancy of yours?”

Lazo laughed. “My wives call it an obsession. They are beautiful, yet deadly, no? A wonder of the world thought lost, and yet now they are found. I can pass from this world content knowing I have heard the song of dragons with my own ears.” He leant forward. “Between us friends, I am more than a little jealous of this dragon queen; three dragons are more than enough for one as small as her, I am thinking. I had half a mind to take one of the wonders back west with me, but I thought again when I saw the men around her. Not many of them, but enough to do for an old sailor like me, yes.”

“What men would these be?” Groleo wondered.

“Four, I was seeing,” he answered. “Three were Dothraki; young, but they looked mean on horseback, and their weapons were fierce. One a whip coiled like a snake, one a bow as tall as the boy,” he said, gesturing to Arya, “and one an arakh that winked at me in the sun. The other was older, bigger, and hairier; with a straight blade at his hip and a scowl across his ugly face. Westerosi, by the looks of him.” Arya saw Arstan’s mouth tighten. She wondered if he knew him. “But I have been long talking. Answers, I have given, now it is your turn, yes.” He studied the trio over the inn’s table. “What is the dragon queen to you?”

Captain and squire shared a glance. “We are admirers, much like yourself,” the old man answered, “bound for Qarth and hoping to get a better picture of the girl on every man’s lips.”

“What was the mood like in the city?” asked Groleo.

The captain leant back. “It was Qarth, old friend, when have you ever known that place to change? I find the Qartheen a tiresome people; do you know what the Dothraki call them? Milk men.” He chuckled. “Theirs is a sour milk, I tell you, left out in the sun for much too long.” 

This sailor likes the sound of his own voice, Arya thought. He’s giving us all the answers again.

“They are not taken with the dragon queen?”

“They are taken with her dragons.”

“As we all are,” Whitebeard put in, “but the girl …”

The captain shrugged. “The girl is a sideshow. The last Targaryen with her queer little pets; an afternoon’s entertainment, not a queen.”

A grave look spread across the squire’s face. “They will not support her.”

“No.” The captain drained the contents of his cup to emphasise the point.

“Why not?”

“Those details shall require another drink and some blunt talk in a more familiar tongue,” the captain said, giving the page who hovered by their table a sideways glance.

The old squire picked up on that. “Yes. Captain, if you would be so good.” He looked at her. “Wait for us outside, child.”

“But-”

“Now, Mycah.” Mycah the page dropped his head and moved quickly to the door, hearing Groleo call for another round of ale as he left. 

Stupid grown-ups, and stupid High Valyrian! She wished she’d had Maester Luwin teach her more of it while at Winterfell, but there had always been more interesting things to learn back then, and there was no way she could have known how important those lessons would end up being. It was the dominant tongue in Essos, with each of the Free Cities having their own dialect that all came from the language of Old Valyria. At least Barristan speaks it, she thought glumly. Arya herself had a basic grasp half-forgotten in the time she’d been away from her home; it felt as though a totally different girl had been the one sat in the maester’s turret counting to twenty in each different dialect.

The old knight could count to a hundred if he wanted to, I can barely get to ten, now. Ser Barristan had surprised her with that knowledge, and it had come in useful in their trip so far. The further they got from Westeros, the less of the common tongue she heard. In Volantis, only people around the docks had any chance of speaking it; the deeper you went into the city, the less need there was for the tongue of a land thousands of leagues away.

Arya leant against the stone brick wall of the Shallow Anchor and waited, wondering what the three men were discussing. Blunt talk, he’d said. What could that mean? Was the queen in danger again? He’d said she would get no support in the city, maybe she’d made enemies that meant her harm? Arya sorely hoped that wasn’t the case. Hearing that the queen had survived her khal’s death and the perilous journey through the Red Waste was the best news Arya had heard in a long while; it would crush her to learn Daenerys had perished after all. The dragon queen had importance beyond the old knight’s quest to regain his honour; she was Arya’s safe way home. The magister won’t resist her, not with three dragons at her back. She’ll see me safe back to Robb and Mother and if she’s good and true I’ll tell Robb to fight for her.

Thankfully, they would reach her soon enough; Groleo said they were nearly halfway to Qarth, it would not be too much longer. Volantis to New Ghis to Qarth , Arya told herself, and around the ruins of Old Valyria. Her heart still fluttered at the thought. Arya had heard tales of the Doom when she was little, and all of them had come flooding back when Whitebeard had laid out their route. She had almost said no, then, almost pleaded with the old squire to take a different route that would keep them far from that awful place, but she’d managed to hold her tongue. That was the voice of the small stupid girl she had been, not of Mycah the page who’d be serving the dragon queen, nor that of the direwolf her father had told her she had to be.

Volantis had been their third stop on their way to Qarth and the dragon queen, and the final Free City they’d be visiting; at least until they returned with Queen Daenerys and her followers. Arya did not like this city. The heat was the worst of it, the type that sapped all the strength from your bones and made each breath you took a chore. Volantis was a port city, but its sea breeze brought no respite, as Arya had found to her dismay. Mercifully, their stop would be brief, just long enough to take on provisions and fill the ships’ hulls before they arrived at Qarth.

Arya stood, watched, and waited. Look with your eyes. That was the charge of a knight of the Kingsguard, Ser Barristan had been teaching her of that as well. It wasn’t as exciting as swordplay but he had claimed for every hour fighting, a Kingsguard knight spent ten thousand standing guard. Arya was less than certain there would be any enemies lurking outside a dockside inn, but the old knight always said an absence of caution was an absence of care.

She knew standing guard was important, and told herself as much several times, but her eyes were determined to wander. Volantis was so unlike anywhere she’d been before, for the Free Cities that sprouted by the narrow sea had taken much and more from the lands that sat across from them. Old Volantis was not the same. Watered by the Rhoyne and the Summer Sea, Volantis took its influences from its mother city Valyria. Arya supposed this must be what Valyria looked like before the Doom; only Valyria had dragons, and the dragons were in Qarth, now.

What Volantis lacked in dragons it more than made up for in other queer beasts, chief amongst them the great, grey creatures men called elephants. Elephants carried the Volantenes and elephants ruled them as well. That was the name for the dominant faction of triarchs that had ruled the city for hundreds of years, Whitebeard had told her when they first arrived. They favoured peace over war, unlike their rivals in the minority who ruled during the Century of Blood that men named the tigers. Arya was yet to see a tiger, but she had seen dozens of elephants. Not all of them were great and grey, most were pale as snow and much smaller, charged with transporting people of relative import across the city. The largest were saved for the old blood and triarchs, the men and women who ruled the First Daughter of Valyria from behind their great black wall.

Those who walked the streets were the lowest of the low, most of them slaves with tattoos on their cheeks. Their small party had fallen in with the rest when they’d departed Saduleon; they were only here to pass time and gather information, little reason to spend coin on a wagon. Arya did not think she’d ever get used to seeing slavery practised so freely and openly as it was in Volantis and Lys before it. There would be slaves in Qarth, she knew, the dragon queen may even have bought some to help reclaim her throne. Arya hoped she was wrong; she did not relish the idea of serving a slaver. It would turn the lords of Westeros against her, Arya told herself, it is a grievous crime to own another man in the Seven Kingdoms. But the Targaryens were of Old Valyria, where Old Nan said slaves were sacrificed by the thousands each day to fuel their magic fires. Perhaps returning to Essos had awoken old traditions within the queen. The thought disquieted Arya; a queen like that may well slap her in chains and send her back to the magister if she was not careful. Ser Barristan had the right of it; they must play their roles and guard their secrets until they had the measure of Queen Daenerys. 

Voices floating through the early evening air pulled Arya from her thoughts. Volantene, she realised, and they don’t sound pleased, though the words weren’t known to her. Quiet as a shadow, she moved away from the inn and towards the noise, her own curiosity overcoming the old knight’s teachings. Just a quick look , she told herself, to make sure nothing is amiss. She tip-toed across the cobblestones with a hand on Needle’s hilt, the voices growing louder as she neared. One grew sharper and harsher as the other shrunk to a pleading whimper. The words were lost to her, but the tone was clear as air. The voices came from an alleyway, Arya pressed herself close to the edge of the wall and peeked her head around the corner.

There were two figures for two voices; the loud stood over the quiet, the scowl on his face made him seem deaf to the pleas. The loud one was dressed in fine blue silk robes trimmed with gold. The fabric looked dishevelled, with a tear on one side and the skin scraped raw beneath. Their hair was slick with sweat, and messy, too, and behind them lay sacks and chests scattered across the alley’s cobbles. One chest had burst open and clothes of half-a-hundred colours spilled out onto the stones.

The other figure shook their head as they pleaded and Arya caught sight of a tattoo on their cheek. A slave, Arya realised, and the loud one must be their owner. Every slave in Volantis had a tattoo on their face to mark their place in bondage; the one in the alleyway had what looked to be a wheel on theirs. Arya was not sure what that meant; each mark referred to a different role, though she had not learnt them all. The slave looked tired. They were drenched in sweat, their hair was plastered to their scalp. Their back was hunched over as they pleaded, Arya could see the slave’s spine jutting out against their tanned skin. Beyond the sweat, the slave looked as dishevelled as their master. They were caked in dirt and had a nasty scratch across their left arm which had drawn a trickle of blood.

Arya hadn’t even noticed the elephant in the alleyway. It had a well decorated cart tied to its pale white back. It was a mode of transport the Volantenes named a hathay, used within the city walls only by those of high birth or station; Arya couldn’t see anyone inside the cart, regardless of their birth. The white dwarf elephant was milling about aimlessly, moving its trunk over the dark stone cobbles looking as bored as an elephant could look. That’s the slaver’s hathay, and those are his goods, Arya deduced, noting the few crates and sacks that remained in the cart. The rest of the haul was scattered across the alleyway. How did they get there? 

The slave’s pleading had not ceased while Arya was in her thoughts. He wore no armour to protect himself, only a scrap of cloth that covered his groin and a wheel tattoo upon his cheek. The wheel … Look with your eyes … Arya glanced from the slave’s mark to the cart’s wheel. It was a polished wood, the rim was painted a deep red. The wheel means driver! But the slave wasn’t driving the hathay seated upon the elephant’s back, he was kneeling in the cold alleyway at the feet of his master.

His face was more dazed than it was afraid, Arya found that strange. The deep flush and sheen of sweat on his face reminded Arya of how the noble ladies would look after collapsing in the heat of King’s Landing. They always appeared as though they’d awoken in the dead of night, Arya had found that funny, but Sansa called her cruel after seeing her laughing. The ladies always had servants on hand to guide them towards some shade and fetch a cool drink; the driver had no one, and Volantis was hotter today than King’s Landing had ever been.

A fall from atop an elephant’s back would certainly cause injuries like those the slave had, and its rider suddenly collapsing would’ve no doubt spooked the beast, perhaps causing it to veer suddenly down a side alley and throw the passenger and half his supplies during the chaos. Arya grinned, it had all added up. The damage to the cart, the slaver’s torn robes; it all pointed to the driver’s fall, and heat like there was today was enough to overwhelm any man.

Wait till Ser Barristan hears! The old knight always spoke of a knight’s intuition. “No two battlefields are the same, just as each opponent you face will be different,” Arstan Whitebeard had told Mycah during one of their lessons. “It is for you to know what has happened and what may yet come.” Arya’s mind ran away with pictures of what Barristan might say when she told him of her discovery, only being pulled from her thoughts when she saw the whip coiled in the slaver’s hands. The shouting continued and the whip’s length was unfurled, its end pooling between the cobbles of the alleyway. Arya watched as  the slaver raised his hand, his grip on the handle was tight.

Needle was unsheathed without hesitation. Arya raced over the cobbles, her boots ringing out across the alleyway in time with the beat of her heart. The slaver held his swing at the sight of her, confusion crossed his features, until he saw the bare steel glinting in the sunset. “No!” Arya knew precious few words in High Valyrian, but that was one. The slaver spoke back to her in the same tongue, the words were quick and angry; Arya understood none of them. She put herself between the two men, Needle gripped tight in her left hand. “No!” she cried out again, trying her best to sound fierce.

More angry words burst forth from the slaver which Arya could only stare back blankly at. “Leave him alone!” She spoke it in the common tongue since High Valyrian had failed her.

His brow furrowed. “Westerosi?”

“Yes!” Arya repeated the word in High Valyrian. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she was pleased two of the words she’d learnt had come in handy.

The slaver did not share in her pleasure. He gritted stained yellow teeth and cursed. “Sunset whore!” The whip slashed out at where Arya had stood, but met only air. The slaver was no great warrior, and had likely only used the weapon against defenceless slaves. She slid into her water dancer’s stance and out of the way of the strike, the leather snapped against the cobbles, and the man growled out more insults.

Arya struck fast with Needle when she saw him lift the whip again, turning his curses to screams in an instant. Blood splattered across the alleyway, man and whip fell to the floor alike, blood leaked out between his fingers as the slaver writhed on the cobbles.

What a baby. She sheathed Needle and gave the slaver a kick for good measure. “That’s for speaking stupid High Valyrian.” Arya turned to the driver. “Are you okay?” 

He understood her no more than his master did. She tried High Valyrian, “Yes?” But it had the same impact. The hathay driver kept his eyes down and remained bowed towards the whimpering lump across from him. 

Arya frowned. “Don’t worry about him, he can’t hurt you anymore.” The man’s eyes met hers for a split second before returning to the cobbles. “No more stupid slavery, either. I freed you. You can come with me if you like, we’re going to Qarth, with three ships,” she said, holding up three fingers. “Just over this way, by the harbour.” Arya pointed down the alleyway and toward the seafront. The slave glanced up to where her finger was aimed but made no move to go. He's stubborn as a mule!

She took a step away. “Come on,” she made a gesture to follow. The driver rose warily to a crouch, stared at Arya with dull eyes, before shuffling back towards his owner and muttering apologies in High Valyrian. “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you want to be free?” Arya couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She’d saved the driver from being whipped and was offering him his freedom and he was turning her down!

The groans of the slaver had dwindled to a quiet whimpering as he lay clutching his wounded hand. Arya had only sliced his palm in order to get him to drop his whip but based on his reaction you would have thought she’d taken the man’s hand off. His fine robes were splotchy with blood and damp with piss; it was a sorry sight, and yet the driver still knelt before him like he was some vengeful god, and not a pudgy man who’d pissed his robes.

Shouts from the end of the alleyway froze Arya’s heart in her chest. They were numerous and panicked, speaking Volantene loudly. The whimpering slaver’s ears pricked up at the noise and he cried out in response; Arya saw the hathay driver tense from the words. Quick as a shadow, Arya dashed over to the slave and took hold of his arm. “We need to go. Now.” The driver was stick-thin and weary from the heat, but he was still more than a match for Arya, resisting her attempts to pull him to his feet. 

The thud of boots on stone heralded four men in studded leather armour with round, hairless faces upon broad shoulders. Curved swords rattled at their waists as they raced across the cobbles towards Arya and the two men. Fear cuts deeper than swords. She redoubled her efforts. “Come on! They’ll get us if we don’t go now!” She could feel the driver shivering as she pulled at his arm, his sobs were almost lost in all the chaos. Arya pulled with all her might. “WE HAVE TO GO!”

The driver’s dark eyes found hers, they were wet and weary and impossibly tired. Arya felt him grab a hold of her arm, his hand was shaking as it pulled at her tunic. “There we go,” she said, glancing uneasily at the guards as they approached. “That’s it, just …” His grip tightened, thin fingers dug deep into her flesh; it felt like he was trying to snap her arm in two. She cried out in pain. “Stop that! I’m trying to-” The driver stopped pulling, and pushed.

Arya was sent hurtling backwards, the cobbles slammed into her back as she landed. She felt blood fill her mouth where she’d bitten her tongue, and the world spin above her after she’d hit her head. Have to move, she told herself. Have to go. She rolled onto her side with considerable effort and considerable pain; the guardsmen were still shouting and running, one had even drawn his sword. 

Calm as still water. Arya steadied her breathing as she pushed back to her feet, using the brick wall of the alley as her crutch. The aching eased with each step as she staggered away from the scene; a glance over her shoulder showed the guards had stopped by their paymaster and had eased the slaver up off the ground, the driver remained bowed beneath his owner. Arya gritted her teeth. He can get whipped as much as he likes now for all I care!

The slaver’s eyes met hers and he raised a blood-soaked finger in her direction, barking out an order to the guards huddled about him. Three of the guards split from the group and began their pursuit, racing past the kneeling driver and towards her. Quick as a snake. Arya pushed off from the wall and began to run. The stinging pain in her back was forgotten as she bolted, boots ringing on the cobbles, breathing in time with each step. Needle rattled at her hip as her good cloak rippled out behind her. She could feel the guards giving chase, could hear their armour shifting with each step, their ragged breaths as they kept in pursuit.

She stole one last glance behind her; the slaver was on his feet, one arm around the remaining guard. The slave was where she’d left him, head against the cobbles, arms raised in pleading mercy. The last thing Arya saw was his owner reaching down for the whip that had lain forgotten on the cold stone.

Arya turned the corner and only the chase remained.

She pictured the path back to the inn in her mind, but as she made to race down the small alleyway another guard stepped into view. She could not go through, could not go back, but she could go over. She leapt onto a gate door to her right and clambered up it, landing in a yard with vines growing over its brick walls. A woman hanging washing looked up at her startled, but Arya pushed by, ducking white sheets and climbing up and over another gate door which led into another alleyway. Shouts and thuds followed her through and a guard emerged behind her a moment later. Arya was already running when she saw him, her pace quickened in turn. 

Volantis was a maze of brick and cobble, and soon enough Arya had no clue where she’d come from or where she must go next. One turn took her down a flight of cracked grey stairs and into a courtyard clustered with houses, and through a window she saw a group of children huddled about a wrinkled crone as she told them a tale, while another showed a man and a woman in gentle embrace; a different turn took her through a winding street that reeked of nightsoil, dogs chased boys and boys chased dogs while a girl clutched tight to a stray yellow tomcat with chewed off ears. She left them behind as well, climbing through a stable and up along a rampart where heads dipped in tar overlooked the city. Arya caught a glimpse of the sea from that height, and made for that direction once she was down.

The guards were waiting for her in the plaza. Three of them, red-faced and angry, spread out as they neared. The words they shouted washed over her; all she heard was the beat of her own heart and the sound of Syrio Forel’s voice. Fear cuts deeper than swords, he said as the guards drew forth their blades. Calm as still water, he told her as they took a step closer. Still as stone, as one moved behind Arya to block her retreat. 

Look with your eyes, she heard Syrio say. The eyes see true. The guard in front of her was leaning his weight on his backfoot ever so slightly, the same each step. Did he hurt it during the chase? The cause did not matter, but its result was Arya’s way out. She let the guard get closer, her eyes fixed on his leg. She counted the steps that lay between them. One … Two … Three … NOW!

Arya bulled forwards as the guard reached out a hand, knocking into his bad leg and sending the pair of them tumbling. The cobbles were unforgiving, but the guard got the worst of it, landing hard on his back where Arya was able to roll through. She was on her feet and running before he could even look about to watch her go. Her freedom opened to her, and she raced out to meet it. Arya went to skirt about the great marble fountain that lay in the centre of the plaza but something wrenched at her good cloak and sent her tumbling. 

The water was shallow, but it still swallowed Arya up. Beneath the din of the fountain she could hear shouting, and when she opened her eyes she saw legs sloshing their way towards her. Drenched, Arya pushed herself onto one knee; water trickled down her cheeks and into her eyes, she rubbed at them to clear her vision. The guard was shouting again, though the crashing of the fountain’s water dulled the noise. Water churned up white as he waded towards her, waving his curved sword angrily. He lunged, and Arya dodged; the fountain floor was slick underfoot and it earnt the moment she was hoping for. She reached to draw Needle, but her belt had moved with the fall and her scabbard was not where it should have been. Her cloak clung heavy and wet to her side and by the time her scabbard was in place the guard was on her again. He swung once, twice, but he was uncertain in the water and tired from the chase, and Arya was able to dance around them. 

A thrust forced Arya backwards, and she felt the rim of the fountain against her back. A yellow grin spread across the guard’s face as he readied another strike. He pushed, but slippery as an eel she spun; wet hand slid off wet clothes and the guard toppled head first over the fountain wall. The guard landed on his neck and lay motionless on the plaza floor, with water pooling about him. Arya vaulted the rim and raced off, she saw the guard she’d knocked over on his feet and limping in her direction and shouting at the top of his lungs. Let him shout, she thought, he can’t catch me now.

A smile almost spread across her face but movement out of the corner of her eyes gave her pause. Arya was moving round one side of the fountain, the third guard was moving round the other; her exit lay between them and he would reach it first. She pulled Needle from its scabbard, a cup full of fountain water came with it. Arya held her bravo’s blade tight, droplets slid down its length and over her fingers. 

She met him amongst empty chairs and empty tables to fight for her freedom. The third guard was smaller than the other two, but quicker than the both of them combined. His strikers were a blur, and it was all Arya could do to dodge them. He chased her through the chairs, slashed at her over the tables, silent all the while. Every thrust was turned aside and answered with two in turn, and Arya’s own parries were flimsy things that sent a monstrous jolt up her arm every time. Steel rang on steel as Arya duelled against death. It was a minor miracle she had not been hit, but even that faltered after Arya saw a half-second opening and paid for the attempt with a nasty cut that gashed her red from wrist to elbow. She cried out in pain as the shock jolted through her arm, sending Needle skidding from her wet grip to land underneath a table. 

Panic forced her forwards as she tried to knock the guard off balance but he had neither a bad leg nor was he standing in three feet of water, Arya may as well have tried to knock over a brick wall. He pushed her backwards with ease and she landed atop one of the tables, its metal surface gave her no respite. The blade’s edge winked at her in the evening sun, the guard’s eyes were blank. Time itself seemed to slow then, and a chorus filled the silence.

Quiet as a shadow. Light as a feather. Calm as still water. Smooth as summer silk. Swift as a deer. Slippery as an eel. Strong as a bear. Fierce as a wolverine. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Still as stone. The man who fears losing has already lost. Never do what they expect. Look with your eyes, look with your eyes, look with your eyes. 

She did, and found a shield. It was square and small, though not too small for her; its livery was chequered white and black without device, but it served. The blade pierced the wood but stopped before it reached Arya, and a few panicked wrenches showed the guard’s sword was stuck. Arya countered with a wrench of her own, sending the guard tumbling over a nearby chair and out of her way. She slid off one table and scampered under a second, scooping up Needle and continuing her flight. 

Arya stole a glance behind her as she sheathed her blade. The limping guard had roused the wet one and the pair of them were chasing from a distance, though Wet was leaving Limp behind as his mind cleared from his fall. The quick guard had disentangled himself from the chair and was following her too. She sped up in turn, wincing as pain from her cut lanced up her arm. Every hurt is a lesson, she told herself. Arya kept on running. 

The road stretched out flat and empty before her, and sloped every so slightly downwards. The evening air rang to a chorus of footfalls, though Arya’s were further ahead than the rest. She dared not look back, so used her ears to judge the chase. Her legs ached from running, and she could feel beads of sweat trickling down her face. Her breaths were heavier and heavier, but she could not stop, had to keep going. If they catch me, they’ll kill me, she told herself. If they catch me, they’ll kill me. If they catch me, they’ll kill me.

Arya gritted her teeth and pushed on. A few more streets, she thought, catching a glimpse of the ocean. Just a few more, and I’m safe. 

She never saw the hand that caught her.

 

 

“She is a pretty little thing.”

“And young enough to be your daughter.”

“Ah, not so young as all that,” Lazo Brenys said from behind his fresh tankard of ale. “My Dilila is only two years her elder, and we wed last year. You will understand when you see her for yourself, my friend. Eyes bright as amethysts, skin smooth as samite, hair like spun silver, a smile to darken the sun itself; I tell you, a dragon was not the only thing I would have left Qarth with, if I’d had my way,” the captain said with a chuckle.

“How did your old eyes notice such details from the back of a crowd?” asked Captain Groleo.

He smiled wistfully at the memory. “A beauty like hers is hard to miss. Even from where I stood, I could see the curve of her thighs; the flush of the heat on her cheeks; the way her breasts pressed against-”

Whitebeard rose abruptly and grimaced. “The boy,” he said, “I ought to check on him.”

The captains shared a glance and a smile spread across Brenys’s face. “The boy. Just so. Why not bring him in? We are speaking of girls, after all; there was little else on my mind at that age, I tell you.”

“Still isn’t,” Groleo said, bringing forth a gale of laughter from both men.

He left them to their revels and wound his way through the mess of chairs and tables on the Shallow Anchor’s ground floor; giving way to a young couple entering and catching the door to walk out into the early evening air. There was precious little respite to the heat outside, if anything the inn was cooler, with its high ceilings and cold stone walls. Such is Volantis , he knew. 

Ser Barristan had heard much and more of what he could expect from the First Daughter on their journey east, but experiencing the heat first hand was something else entirely. His loose tunic stuck to his skin, and his beard was damp with sweat. He had tied his growing hair in a small knot to allow the meagre breeze to reach his neck, yet still the heat lingered. The brown roughspun robes of Arstan Whitebeard had been left in his quarters aboard Saduleon, and with his hair kept high the only pieces of his disguise left to him were the white whiskers that fell to his neck, and the long, straight staff that stood as tall as he did.

The heat strips all else away , he mused, glancing about the entrance. Including the boy, it seems.

The page was not where Whitebeard had told him to wait; neither Arya nor Mycah were anywhere to be seen. He walked across the front to begin a full lap around the building, knowing how the girl was like to wander with little cause. She was wilder than any boy who’d served as his page or squire, and while she had been diligent aboard the ship, this was the first time Whitebeard had left her unsupervised when visiting a city; no doubt some strange thing had caught her eye. It was only once he had done a full lap of the inn did he begin to fret. Volantis was perilously big, and there were precious few around who spoke the common tongue. Arya’s lessons in High Valyrian had been tough-going, and Whitebeard doubted she could introduce herself to a Volantene crossing the street, nevermind ask them for directions to the Shallow Anchor.

He hovered outside the entrance to the inn, hoping for some sign of the page. “Mycah! Where are you, boy?” Patrons looked at him queerly as they entered the inn, no doubt wondering why some haggard old Westerosi was shouting in the street.

An alleyway fed off from the inn’s entrance, leading onto the main road that linked the two halves of Volantis together. It would not shock him to find the girl perusing the market stalls that dotted the path, and so it was in this direction that he went.

Whitebeard saw the blood first.

Pooled between the alley’s grey cobbles, it had stained the moss that grew in the cracks a reddish brown. The blood had smeared queerly in some places, and when Whitebeard checked, it was still warm to the touch. He stood, and saw then that some of the smudging looked like footprints, and they led deeper into the city.

He knew there was no proof this scuffle had involved the page, but he also knew Arya Stark had a knack for finding trouble quite unlike anyone he had ever met.

And so it was that, without a better lead, Whitebeard followed the blood smears, praying they led to the girl unharmed. He did not know what he would do if she had hurt herself, or … no, do not think of it. She will be fine, Whitebeard told himself. You have trained her … but is that enough?

She had learned fast and with much enthusiasm, and her growth since their first practice aboard the Young Lady was considerable. He trusted the girl to hold her own in a fight, but there was no amount of training that would allow her to match a full-grown man for strength, at least not at her age. Even for a girl of one-and-ten, Arya was a scrawny little thing, and Whitebeard was less than certain that she would ever grow large enough to truly challenge a man in combat. There were reasons a girl like her was such a rarity; he only hoped he would not have to be the one to break that particular bit of news to her.

Voices sharpened the further he went down the alleyway, and Whitebeard heard Volantene being shouted between two people.

“It was Master Stallyros!” a woman’s voice cried.

“Was it fuck! What was a Phassoris doing on the west side? Stretching his elephant’s legs, was he?”

“His men were chasing a thief through the streets, and I saw Master Stallyros coming up a while after. His arm was bandaged, a gift from the little thief, most like. It was him, I tell you!”

The other, a man, scoffed. “Steps foot in the west side for the first time in gods know how long and gets himself robbed! And some wonder why we’ve got so few voters here.” He laughed bitterly. “At least tell me they caught the wretch?”

“I never saw. They were chasing him towards the Plaza of Honours, but he was quick as a sparrow.”

Thief? Arya … what have you done? If the girl was caught, a lost hand would be the best she could hope for, and if she had drawn a voter’s blood … He left the bickering voices behind, and doubled his pace, heading towards the Plaza. The girl was quick, and no stranger to navigating the streets of a city, but Master Stallyros had the power to rouse the whole of the City Guard to aid in the hunt. He only prayed Arya could shake her pursuers and make her way back to where Saduleon was docked. Belwas will keep her safe , Selmy told himself. If he did not find her in the Plaza, he would go to the ship himself, praying the girl awaited him with every step.

DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! 

Bells rung out from the Temple of the Lord of Light, clear as day even from this distance. The sound drew slaves from every street and alleyway, and soon the main road was heaving. Each bore a tattoo on their cheek and a scrap of red silk clutched tight in their hands. The ringing was monotonous, ominous, and captivating. It spoke of import, of significance. Whatever the High Priest had to say could not be missed, and it was to this droning brass song that the press began.

The main road was still the quickest route, and so it was into and through the crowd that Whitebeard went, twisting and pushing and squeezing past the people moving every which way. It was slow going, too slow, too slow! When a gap opened up he raced into it, but realised too late why no one else had taken to the clearing.

PAWOO-OO-OO-OO-OO-OO-OO-!

Whitebeard felt the elephant before he saw it. The great grey beast shook the earth with every step, waving its trunk from side to side as if in warning. Atop his back in a brightly-coloured palanquin sat one of the Volantene old blood, looking on indifferently. He staggered back into the crowd, panicked shouts rising up as others pushed and pressed their way to safety. No sooner had one beast lumbered off then another came barreling round a corner, and it was all Selmy could do not to be knocked to the floor. And still the bells rang out.

DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! 

Beneath the elephant’s feet, chaos reigned. Whitebeard knew the longer he stayed stuck in this crowd, the less chance he had of finding Arya and getting her to safety. He had to get out, but bodies pressed against him from all sides, and he felt no closer to the Plaza than he had been five minutes hence. The shouts from all about him were near deafening, a cacophony of Volantene that made him envy the page’s ignorance of the language. The slaves were crying out, waving their red scraps above their heads.

“Let us go!”

“Please, we must reach the temple!”

“Benerro speaks! He speaks! He speaks!”

Left in the beast’s wake were three carriages upturned and broken, their goods spilled across the cobbles like a man’s guts. The crash had locked them together, and the crowd no longer had anywhere to go. Whitebeard saw people pushed up against the wreckage, for those at the back continued to move up, unaware or uncaring of those ahead of them. Already some were trying to separate the carriages, slaves worked as slavers bickered from atop horse and litter alike, and Whitebeard felt his hope fading.

Gods, girl, where are you? Where have you gone? What have you done? His chest was tightening from the strain, and he felt tears stinging at his eyes. Somewhere in this godsforsaken city was a child that needed his help, and he was too old and weak and foolish to get to her. He tried in vain to make some room for himself, any space earned was lost a second after. You forgot yourself, old man. You thought yourself able, and you’ll die for that mistake. Crushed in this city a thousand leagues from home. And still the bells rang out.

DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! … DING-G-G-G! 

Ser Barristan shut his eyes, and thought of Arya Stark. He saw her long face streaked with tears, frightened and alone in this strange and scary place. The streams coming from her eyes soon turned red, and Selmy saw the girl lying cold and still in an alleyway. He heard Arya’s voice in his mind, quiet as a mouse, say, “They probably think I’m dead , don’t they?” Don’t they? Don’t they?

It was too much for him to bear. 

He cried out in anguish, in pain, in shame, and pushed forwards. And pushed forwards. And pushed forwards. And pushed forwards.

The carriages creaked and groaned, and slid aside, slaves tumbling through, exhausted from their efforts. Like water from a burst dam, the crowd rushed out, tasting the fresh air and praising the gods for their salvation. Whitebeard went with them, breathing heavily and thanking the Mother for her mercy.

When the Plaza of Honours came into view he was red-faced and weary, his old bones aching from the strain. It was as peaceful as it was beautiful, with intricate stonework all done to draw the eye towards the water fountain at the plaza’s heart. The floor was patterned stone of half a dozen colours, the buildings made of sandstone and decorated with carved pale marble. Vines snaked up pillars that stood in line like soldiers, propping up the balcony that looked down upon the plaza. Flowers bloomed from planters hung over the brass railing, and ferns and plants burst out from clay pots like peacocks fanning their feathers.

The bulk of the plaza was given over to housing, and the few shops were either closed at the late hour or open but sparsely patroned. Given the peace and quiet, one would never think to imagine the tragedy that had nearly occurred a few blocks away. Whitebeard moved across the plaza quickly, ignoring the ache in his knees, and heading in the direction of the city’s harbour. Black iron tables and chairs were scattered nearby, and all were empty save one, where a grey old man moved pieces across a cyvasse board in a game against himself. He noticed Whitebeard’s eyes on him, and he smiled.

“Care for a game, friend?”

Whitebeard slowed. “I fear I do not know the rules.” He knew of cyvasse, and knew Groleo was a fan of the game, but Whitebeard had never played it.

“It is simple enough. I can teach you, if you like.”

Selmy forced a smile. “Another time, perhaps. I am seeking a companion of mine, I believe he passed through this way. Did you happen to see him?”

The old man shrugged. “I see a great many people from my spot. Your companion might have been one of them, what does he look like?”

“A boy of one-and-ten, Westerosi, like me, and a scrawny little thing. Brown hair and a long face. Does any of that sound familiar?”

He rubbed his wrinkled chin, and moved the ivory light horse forwards. He replied with the onyx heavy horse, and one rider chased the other. “Westerosi are a rare sight this far east,” he said. “Yes, I recall the boy now. He made quite the fuss.”

Fuss? Whitebeard moved closer to the man. “Tell me.”

Down came the spearmen from behind the mountains, and up came elephants in reply. “He had guards chasing him, don’t you know, and talk was that the boy was a thief, and had stolen from none other than Stallyros Phassoris! For why else would his guards be chasing the lad so aggressively? Am I speaking to a criminal, I wonder?”

“No,” he said firmly. “Never. Nor is the boy.” That is so, isn’t it? Isn’t it? Whitebeard wanted to say the boy knew better, but today had tried his faith in that regard. Stand guard, I said. Was that so difficult? “Which way did he go?”

“Oh,” said the old man, “he went this way, and that.” The ivory light horse took a crossbowman, then a rabble. “Into the fountain, and back out again.” The onyx heavy horse took out a trebuchet. “Then he used that bravo’s blade of his to duel one of the guards not three feet from where I now sit.”

Ser Barristan’s heart dropped. “A duel?” No. Anything but, child. Please, no.

“It was a thrilling fight, if a little one-sided,” he said, knocking aside a catapult with an ivory elephant.

No … “What happened? Who won?”

A smile crept across the old man’s face, and he moved the onyx dragon to sweep into an open space and corner the ivory king. “Death in two,” he said.

“What?”

He knocked the king off the board, then looked up at Ser Barristan. “There was no winner. The boy managed to escape.”

Selmy felt dizzy with relief, and leant against his staff for fear of collapse. “Thank the Seven. How … How did he get away?”

The old man chuckled. “You can thank my cyvasse board for that,” he replied, tipping it upright so the pieces slid away to reveal the great gash that spread across the wooden surface like a wound. “He lost his blade, and had to improvise his shield lest he be slain. The board was close at hand, and he brought it up just in time to catch the blow and stick the sword within the wood. When the window to flee came, he did not hesitate.” He ran a wrinkled hand across the scarred wood. “Clever lad, you’ve got there, friend. Clever lad.”

She got away! he thought. She got away! She got away!

“I thank you, friend.”

The old man pressed a knuckle to his forehead. “Find your boy, then, before the Master does.”

Whitebeard ran back to the Saduleon, and caught his breath to the sound of voices on deck. Belwas chortled at some jape he had missed, and so it was that he came up the gangplank to find the eunuch chatting away with Captain Groleo. “Arstan! We were worried you’d gotten lost, friend.”

How did he … “I was looking for the boy.”

“But did not find him,” said the captain, smiling.

“No … I hoped Mycah might have come back here.”

“He did,” said a quiet voice from behind him. 

Whitebeard turned and pulled the child into a hug. She yelped, but Selmy ignored it, utterly lost to relief.

“I’m okay! I’m okay!” she squeaked.

Ser Barristan pulled back, but kept his hands on her shoulders. “I feared I had lost you,” he whispered.

Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

Selmy flinched. “I-I found blood in the alleyway, and … and there was talk of a chase …”

“That wasn’t my blood, it was the stupid slaver’s! There was a chase, though, but I got away in the end.”

“Ar … Mycah ,” he corrected, aware of those listening, “that slaver was Master Stallyros Phassoris, a Volantene voter, and a powerful man from a powerful family.”

The page crossed her arms defiantly. “He was a wuss, and a bully.”

“He could have killed you, child!”

“His guards, maybe, but he couldn’t. I cut him once with Needle and he fell on the floor crying!”

Ser Barristan heard the others laugh, but he found nothing of this amusing. “What in seven hells possessed you to confront the man?”

Arya Stark gripped her sleeves where her arms were crossed. Why doesn’t he understand? “He was going to hurt him!”

The old squire furrowed his brow. “Hurt who?”

“The driver,” she explained. “I heard them arguing in the alleyway and went to investigate, that was when I saw the slaver had a whip in his hand. He was going to hit the driver with it so I stopped him.” She was proud of herself for that, but for some reason Whitebeard didn’t echo her thoughts. He’s meant to be proud, too.

“You attacked him, Mycah.” His face darkened. “You had no right.”

Arya could not believe what she was hearing. “I thought knights were meant to protect people!”

Whitebeard looked away. “There are no knights in Volantis, child, only slaves and freemen. Master Stallyros was punishing his property, as is his right here. By stepping in you broke the law, and could have been arrested, or worse. That slave now bears the burden of your folly on his back, like as not with double the lashings.”

Suddenly, Arya was ashamed. “I tried to get him to come with me but he wouldn’t …” She felt tears, and rubbed at them angrily. “He … He pushed me away when I tried to take his arm. I had to run, then, otherwise they would’ve caught me. I made it across the city and ran into Belwas eating liver and onions. He helped me hide from the guards then we came back here.”

“A small mercy the slave did not come with you,” he muttered.

That made her angry. “You’re glad he stayed as a slave?!”

His weathered face frowned. “That is not what I meant. If this man had come willingly, where would you have gone? Back here? Would your new friend be coming along with us to Qarth? Or was he to stay here as a newly-freed man, and when his old owner came calling he could tell him the little Westerosi boy had broken his chains and he was no longer his property. Was that your plan, child? Truly?”

Arya chewed her lip. The truth was she hadn’t had a plan, she’d just acted. “What was I meant to do?” she shouted back. “Just leave him there to get whipped? How is that fair?”

“It isn’t,” Whitebeard agreed, “nothing about this is, but it isn’t our fight.” His pale blue eyes searched hers. “We are bound for Qarth, to serve the rightful queen of Westeros, Daenerys Targaryen, whose future lies in the Seven Kingdoms, not Volantis. We came here to take on provisions, gather any intelligence we can, and keep a low profile.”

You failed at that last part, he left unsaid, but Arya could hear the scorn in it all the same. “I … I was at first, I was keeping guard like you taught me, but when I saw him with that whip in his hand … shouting, screaming at the driver … I couldn’t just stand there. I couldn’t. Not again …”

“Child,” Ser Barristan said gently, “you have a good heart. Slavery has existed long before Volantis was founded, and will exist longer after it has sunk back into the mud. I have heard men call it the wheel that turns the world, and that wheel is not easily stopped. That slave was one of millions in the city, they say there are five to every freedman within the walls. Were we to rescue them all?” He sighed, and sounded all of his years. “No, child. I am sorry, but it cannot be.” Arya looked down, but she could feel his eyes on her still. “Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

She nodded. They could not free them all, no matter if it was the right thing to do. Arya understood the old knight’s thinking, even if it chafed at her. It made her feel helpless, and she hated that. She’d felt helpless at the Great Sept in King’s Landing, and in Pentos at the magister’s manse. She had sworn to be a direwolf, fearless and strong, and she had been. Arya had stood up to the slaver and cut him down … only it didn’t work.

“Our path takes us east to the dragon queen,” Whitebeard reminded her.

Yes, she thought. East to the dragon queen. East to her justice.

 

 

“Stormborn,” whispered the old squire.

It was a name fit for a queen. 

It was a name fit for a legend.

Whitebeard recalled well the night of that storm. He was not long recovered from the wound taken on the Trident, and had been posted outside the new king’s bedchamber, guarding the royal person. Across Blackwater Bay, the Targaryen fleet had been destroyed by the storm, and the king’s younger brother sailed his newly built fleet to the keep to prevent the remaining Targaryen’s escape. Unbeknownst to Lord Stannis, but the prince and princess had already been spirited from their ancestral seat by Ser Willem Darry and the remaining loyalists, and he found Dragonstone empty upon his arrival.

Robert’s rage had been near as fierce as the storm itself, and directed most unjustly at his brother given Prince Viserys and his newborn sister were already in Braavos when Lord Stannis and his new fleet set sail. None of that mattered to Robert, though, for the man’s hatred of Targaryens defied all logic and sense. Selmy thought of the black rage that had taken him when news of Daenerys’ pregnancy, and knew that the years had done little to gentle his fury. The assassin His Grace had sent that day had thankfully failed, and Robert himself had perished soon after.

The way the wind whistled off the bay that night, and how the thunder had boomed down from the heavens like giants roused from rest, it felt prophetic. She is the giant, now, he thought, with dragons perched atop her shoulders. We, all of us, shall walk in her shadow, and a lucky few will get to see the sun.

He sighed, leant over to the lantern by his bunk, and blew it out.

Thunder rumbled in the black sky above, shaking the world.

In reply, Belwas’ stomach rumbled inside his cabin, craving liver and onions.

He wanted to go above deck, find the kitchen, and eat whatever he could get his hands on, but the captain had forbidden it. Captain Groleo was a serious man, with only a small belly, he did not understand what a belly like Belwas’ needed. When smaller men tried to tell Strong Belwas what he could and could not do, usually he would laugh in their faces and go right ahead with whatever they had wanted to stop. 

The storm was different, though.

It was big, bigger even than Belwas. To laugh at a storm was to laugh at the gods themselves, and Belwas had always been a godly man. He thanked the gods before and after every victory in the pit, before and after every meal of liver and onions, and before and after the winner’s purse was placed in his hands. They were his gods, and worship of them had never done him wrong.

So here he sat, listening to the storm and the growl of his belly, annoyed.

The ship groaned as it rode across the angry waves, tipping the world this way and that.

In reply, Belwas groaned back, terribly bored.

His cure for boredom most days was hitting someone or eating something. The storm stopped that, too. It was not safe to go above deck so Belwas was stuck on his own. He would give many a plate of liver and onions for a worthy foe to face. Even the boy Mycah would provide some entertainment for him, for his training had done that very well during the voyage so far. He was only small, but he was fierce as a tiger, and learned quick. Whitebeard pushed him hard, and the two could be found working from sunup to sun down most days, but neither complained. Belwas would have enjoyed it if they had, and he had spent many hours watching and laughing and shouting, hoping to get a rise from either of them, but left disappointed more often than not.

Belwas had then decided to get involved directly, hoping that tossing the boy about the deck would alleviate his boredom, and it had for a time, but he soon found that giving Mycah lessons instead of bruises was more interesting to him. The boy was full of questions, and while his High Valyrian was awful, they worked together well enough for Belwas to get his answers across. Mycah was his page, whatever that meant, so Belwas had supposed he ought to teach him how to fight properly, otherwise the boy might bring dishonour down on him.

Mycah fought like a scrawny mongrel, a strange mix of Westerosi knight and Braavosi water dancer that made his strikes and positioning hard to predict. The boy’s first trainer had been a bravo from the Secret City, and his influence was clear as day. Whitebeard grumbled over wrong forms and poor core balance, but Belwas knew better. In the pit, the foe that knows you is the foe that kills you. No foe will know Mycah, and once they do they’ll be so full of holes it won’t matter.

The boy had gone wide-eyed and wonder-filled when Belwas told him tales of his time in the pits, of the foes he’d faced and the blood he’d spilled. The squire grumbled over that, too, but Belwas paid him no mind. The boy was in Essos now, and pit fighting was as common as the prancing jousts men did in the Sunset Kingdoms.

He told Mycah of the Spotted Cat and Sandoq the Shadow, of Fearless Ithoke and Goghor the Giant, of Barsena Blackhair and the duel of a dozen beasts, and of Bruiser Godosh and the Scar-Giver’s bloody brawl through the arena seats. The stories were familiar and loved as family members, and the boy was wowed by them all.

But it was Barsena that sparked his interest most. “They let girls fight in the pits?”

“Blood is blood,” Belwas had answered. “Man or woman, it makes no matter.”

Something in Mycah’s shining grey eyes had brought up memories to Belwas, memories that he had not thought about for many, many years. There was a storm, then, too, he remembered. Loud and furious. It had scared him as a boy, though he had not let on to his younger brother. For him, Belwas had to be strong, always.

It was the look Draqhan had given him when he told his brother they would be okay. It was a mix of trust and fear. Belwas didn't know if they would be okay, really; he was just looking for a way to stop the tears. 

It was the last look Draqhan had given him, they were pulled apart by the slavers soon after and Belwas never saw him again. They took Belwas to the pits, for he was big even at that age, but Draqhan was skinny as a stick, though had a mind as fast as any sword stroke Belwas could manage. It pleased him to imagine his little brother as a teacher or a scribe somewhere, so that was what he believed. The storm had hit the night they were pulled apart, and the rain had hidden his tears.

Belwas pushed up from his bunk, angry. He did not like to think about those things, and blamed the captain for bringing them onto him. Storm be damned, Belwas was going to hit something. He opened his cabin’s door, turned the corner, and felt something bounce against his belly. Belwas heard a little yelp and saw the boy sitting on his rump in front of him.

Mycah looked up at him, his hair fell over his grey eyes. “Belwas!”

He stepped over the boy.

“Belwas!” he repeated. “I need to speak to you.”

He grunted. “No speak,” he growled in the common tongue.

“Yes, speak!” Mycah insisted, jumping to his feet. “It’s about Volantis.”

That slowed his pace a little. “What about it?”

Mycah caught up with him. “Before you found me … Before I was being chased … Because I was being chased … There was a slave.”

“Is Volantis. Always slave in Volantis.”

The boy went on. “I tried to free him, but he refused. It was like he wanted to stay as a slave … I don’t understand it.”

Belwas stopped and looked down at the boy. He is just a boy, he thought, from a strange, faraway land. His voice softened. “You Westerosi,” he said, “you not know. Slave was weak, but some men always weak. Some slave like wear …” ‘ belmons’   he wanted to say, for the word was not one he had in common. Belwas held out his wrists before him and shook them in mime.

Mycah’s brow furrowed for a moment before lifting. “Chains?”

“Chains,” he growled back.

The boy nodded, and went quiet for a time. “Were you ever like that?” he asked. “Did you ever love your chains?”

He chortled. “Belwas love three things: gold, battle, and liver and onions.”

Mycah giggled. “That’s four things, stupid.”

Belwas’ laugh rumbled out in tandem with the thunder above, and the galley creaked and groaned with them inside, but neither Belwas nor his page seemed to mind.

Groleo did, however. Groleo minded very much.

He knew well how treacherous the waters about the ruins of Valyria could be, but the bright skies and strong winds they'd enjoyed that week had deluded him into thinking they might be spared this time … he was wrong. The rain had come that morning, soft at first, but growing stronger with each hour past. The clouds came soon after, and brought with them the winds. When Groleo broke his fast it was a gust, when he stopped for lunch it was a gale, and when he sat with his first mate for their supper it was a hurricane.

The cutlery had slid up and down the length of the table with every wave they crested, at the tilting mercy of the sea herself. She was angry tonight, and she birthed that anger into a storm. Not all storms were angry, and Groleo knew the differences after his many years of sailing.  Some were gentle, some were languid, some were swift and sharp, others slow and dreary, all were wet and windy, but none held anger like tonight’s did.

Saduleon was Groleo’s pride and joy, the largest ship he’d ever owned, and a marker of all of the hard work he had put in to get to where he was now. He glanced up at the clouds overhead, and saw lightning set them alight. I will not lose her this night. His crew was able, experienced, and already he had set them to reef all sails save one fore-staysail, for his Saduleon would be running tonight. The winds would be driving them, and they at their mercy, but Groleo knew no safer way to face a storm summoned from the bowels of Old Valyria.

As the rains lashed down, he could still make out the distant red gloom of the ancient ruins beyond the bruised bank of clouds. Cursed , he knew, and we sail to bring its heir home. He misliked the thought, and some part of him wondered if the gods themselves had summoned the storm to stop them in their tracks, to ensure a second Valyria never came to pass.

She is a girl, he told himself. A girl … with dragons. Groleo knew nothing of them when he took the job from the magister. Dragons were mere myth back then, and the world seemed a simpler, more sensible place. He thought of his old friend Lazo Brenys’ words at the Shallow Anchor. A dark ritual, he said, blood magic used to birth dragons from stone. Half the words from his mouth were empty boasts, and the other half were outright lies, but Lazo had been to Qarth, and knew more of the little queen than they did. What was more fanciful: dragons in the skies or Lazo Brenys telling the truth? 

Truth or no, ritual or no, there was no backing out now. Groleo Aenolis was no man to renege on a deal, just as he was no man to quail before a storm. No matter how angry it was. Pulling the hood of his cloak up, Groleo strode across the slick wet deck of Saduleon and up towards the helm. Harys, his first mate, stepped away from the wheel and the captain took hold, feeling the strain such violent winds were putting on the helm.

The storm wanted to pull them every which way, but Groleo held firm. Waves rose and fell either side of them, crashing into the inky blackness in a burst of white sea spray. Saduleon shuddered and shook beneath them, groaning like a wounded beast as they crested the latest wave in their path. 

“Hold strong, my love,” he whispered. “Hold strong.”

As the thunder rumbled across the clouded vista, and the wind whistled past at monstrous speed, Groleo’s words could barely be heard. When a foul gale crashed against his Saduleon’s hull and sent the helm spinning wildly, Groleo realised he had to take his own advice. Hold strong.

He grabbed the helm and forced it back on track, arms burning from the effort. Hold strong for Phira , he told himself, picturing his darling wife with the grey in her hair and a smile wrinkling the corners of her eyes. Hold strong for Maleo, his boy who was too smart for his own good, hold strong for Nesona, his baby girl as pretty as sunrise and brave as any man. Hold strong for the babes, Groleo thought, gritting his teeth. For Minera and Tirissa, for the twins, for little Sallos who was still only two. His grandchildren, the light of his life, who this hells-sent storm wanted to deny a grandfather. For Pentos, he thought. My city. My home.

For them all, he held on, and pulled his Saduleon away from the path of the storm to their right. He turned to Harys. “Help me lash it!” The first mate fetched the rope and together they bound the helm in place, set on the course he knew would see them safe to Qarth. He led his first mate below deck, for both men were exhausted and soaked to the bone. The storm watchman passed them by as Harys ducked his head under for shelter at last, but something caught Groleo’s eye and the captain turned back.

There, within the oppressive wall of black and grey, between the cracks, came the dawn’s morning light.

 

 

“Is she pretty?”

The old squire ran a hand through his long white beard. “Beautiful … or so they say.”

Arya was leaning against Saduleon’s railing, watching as the city slowly came into view. “Father said all the Targaryens were beautiful. Is that so?” Bran had been obsessed with Aemon the Dragonknight, and Sansa was most interested in his sister, Queen Naerys. Arya liked Nymeria best, but she was Rhoynish, not Valyrian.

Whitebeard nodded in reply. “You recall the Lyseni, don’t you? The blood of Old Valyria flows there strongest in all of Essos, but House Targaryen drew an unbroken line to the dragonlords of old, something none in Lys can lay claim to. In them lay the beauty of a people ancient and powerful beyond all reckoning, and one need only look upon a member of their house to realise it.” He looked out to the city, perhaps picturing the little queen. “They were more than just beautiful, child … they were beauty itself.”

She followed Whitebeard’s eyes to where they lingered on Qarth, the Queen of Cities, and chewed her bottom lip. Even from this distance, it was a rainbow of colours utterly unlike any city she had seen on her long journey east. Arya cast her mind back to the beginning of their trip, many months ago when she was ‘Arry the orphan boy coming into Pentos’ harbour. You could drop that whole seafront into the Qartheen one and it would barely make a splash. Pentos had seemed so strange to her back then, but now its red-tiled houses and stout brick walls seemed almost quaint by comparison. This is a city one sails across the world for, Arya decided as she watched Qarth draw near. This is a city worth the wait.

“Is Qarth beautiful, too?” She thought it was, but was curious to hear the old squire’s thoughts.

He looked back down at her, blue eyes pensive. “So they say.”

Arya tilted her head. “And what do you say?”

“I have never been,” he replied, “so I can only repeat what I have heard from others.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly. “Well, what else do they say, then?”

A smile cut through the great beard he wore. “If you ask a Qartheen they will tell you the city is the birthplace of civilization, but say that to a maester in Oldtown and they’ll laugh in your face. They might do the same if you call it the centre of the world, but that will not stop Qarth’s people from boasting of it as such. None doubt its magnificence, however, and Lomas Longstrider named its triple walls as one of his sixteen wonders in his second book for good reason. It is a city of merchants, made rich by trade, with the Summer Sea to its west and the Jade Sea to its east. All ships hoping to taste the riches of the far east stop in Qarth there and back again, and the merchants reap the rewards in gold. Its people are happy and rich, and Qarth has not tasted war since the Century of Blood, some four hundred years ago.” Whitebeard’s face darkened. “I fear this explains their reticence to aid the queen,” he said sourly. “They may see her as little more than a troublemaker hoping to pull Qarth into a war it has no interest in entering. Westeros is a world away, and Daenerys has little to offer in incentive.”

“She has dragons,” Arya said in reply. “The sight of them alone would be enough to have thousands flock to her banner back home.”

“Back home,” he allowed, “but not in Qarth. What was it Groleo’s friend called them? An afternoon’s entertainment. ”

Arya didn’t want it to be true. “He also called them a wonder of the world!”

“Qarth has no lack of wonders, child. Beyond the triple walls lies the Hall of a Thousand Thrones where the Pureborn rule, descended from ancient kings and queens of the Qaathi Empire; the Temple of Memory sits to the east with its floating oaks; the warlocks have their centre of power in the House of the Undying to the north, where they sip their evening’s shade and speak in riddles of past and future; and the Garden of Gehane stretches out to the west, and is said to hold every species of plant native to Essos within its brass-spiked walls.” He looked at her for a moment, and smirked. “You do not believe me.”

Arya shrugged. “I believe you read a history book on our journey here. I still say dragons are better than any of that stuff. Maybe the Qartheen are just stupid?”

Whitebeard chuckled. “Maybe.”

“Queen Daenerys doesn’t need their help, anyhow,” she announced. “That’s what we’re here for.”

“She might appreciate the ships they could offer her, and the soldiers placed within them.”

“We’ve got ships!”

“Three ships, built for trading,” he corrected. “It is hardly a royal armada fit to take on the Redwyne fleet. What of the soldiers, too?”

She chewed her lip. “Well … she has us, and Belwas, as well.” When she looked at the old squire she flushed, and grew angry. “It’s better than nothing!”

“Not by much, I fear.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “You sound like you don’t think we can do it.”

He ran a wrinkled hand through his beard. “I still have faith, but I also know the struggles the queen must overcome. It does no good to blind ourselves to them, child. We must advise and guide Her Grace as much as we protect and defend her; an advisor who cannot face the truth of the matter is no use to anyone, least of all the rightful queen of Westeros.”

Advise and guide. Arya did not think she had much advice or guidance to offer Daenerys Targaryen, who had done and seen so much in her life across the narrow sea. I could show her how best to catch cats, or tell her which tree branches in Winterfell’s godswood made the best swords. Arya frowned. What type of queen would want to know that stuff? She thought of cold, cruel Queen Cersei, and suddenly grew worried that the dragon queen would be the same way.

“You are quiet,” noted Whitebeard. “How come?”

“What if … she does not want us?”

The old squire looked down at the child, and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Queen Daenerys. What if she turns us away?”

“Whyever would she do that?”

Arya’s eyes dropped. “She might not want our help. If we come to her as an old squire and a skinny page in service to a pit fighter, she might turn her nose up and look elsewhere. Then what would we do?” The girl chewed her lip. “Maybe … Maybe we shouldn’t use our false names,” she whispered. “Maybe we should just be Arya and Barristan, instead. There’s no way she’d refuse us then.”

Selmy glanced about the deck of Saduleon, making sure there were no curious ears about. Once certain there weren’t, he knelt down to speak to the girl. “You are scared, Arya. That is normal, and nothing to be ashamed of. We are doing a scary thing, but to cast off our disguise is to drop our shield before battle. All it would serve to do is leave us vulnerable.” Ser Barristan placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “We do not know the queen, we do not know her nature. We risk much by giving her the naked truth, for she may not be worthy of that level of trust. Our names hold power, Arya, and to offer them up willingly is to hand that power over to the queen, and we do not know what she might do with it.

“I … I served her family once, but so too did I take Robert’s pardon and swear my sword to the man who killed her brother and usurped her father’s throne. If she is good and true, she will see the same in my intentions now and take me into her service, but if she is not …” Ser Barristan shook his head. “Would that I could turn back time and refuse. Would that I had been there to protect her and her brother, to help them grow up safe and happy. Would that she knew me already, and trusted me.” His pale eyes were shining. “It is not to be, child.”

Arya reached up and patted Ser Barristan’s hand. “There is still time, ser. She will trust us, and we will help her, you’ll see.”

He smiled sadly. “Yes …” The crack of burning logs, a son’s choked scream. “Did your father tell you about the war?”

“He … No,” she answered. “Not really.” He never liked to speak of it, Arya remembered. Others would, she thought, Luwin, and the guardsmen, and even Mother now and then, but not Father. “It was not like the songs,” Jon had told her once. “They rode to save Aunt Lyanna, but they failed.”

Ser Barristan nodded. “There were precious few tales of valour to speak of,” he mused. “We all lost, in a way. I only ask because it may shape how Her Grace sees you, child. Stark and Targaryen fought one another, thousands died. On your side, there was uncle, aunt, and grandsire; on hers, uncle and father, niece and nephew. Blood lies between you, to walk up to her as Arya of House Stark may turn her against you for good.”

He wasn’t making sense. “I wasn’t even born when all of that happened. Why would she be angry at me about it?”

“We do not know, but Mycah the page’s father did not help to overthrow her father and force her into a life of exile. Being a Stark brings risks, my lady; risks we could well do without, at least for now.”

Arya chewed her lip. She could not stop being a Stark, could she? Watching her home disappear beyond the horizon, months spent at sea, turning away from the horrors of life in Essos … all of it had been done for her family. For Winterfell, for the North, for the promise that she would see them again and feel the warmth of them after so long apart. I am Arya of House Stark … aren’t I?

She was reckless, stubborn, wild, angry, foolish, childish, stupid. Arya of House Stark was all of those things. She made things awkward, ugly, difficult, dangerous, bad. Arya of House Stark did all of those things. She caused problems, issues, arguments, trouble, pain, hurt, death. Arya of House Stark caused all of those things. She thought of the slave’s hollow eyes, of his master reaching for the whip that lay on the blood-stained cobbles. It was Mycah that stood guard outside the inn, and Arya that got distracted by the noises. She is nothing but trouble. Nothing.

Who needed Arya of House Stark? Who wanted Arya of House Stark? What use was there for Arya of House Stark?

She understood. Queen Daenerys needed loyalty, certainty, obedience, calmness, strength. Arya of House Stark could not offer those things, but maybe the boy could.

The page looked away. “I’ll be Mycah, then,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Saduleon and its sister ships docked on the far side of the harbour, nestled between a sleek Summer Island swanship and a great wallowing cog from Old Volantis. Once the gangplank was lined up with the pier the crew wasted no time in unloading parts of their hold and turning the goods they’d gathered on their journey east into coin for the magister. That was their job whilst here, but their passengers were after a different cargo.

Daenerys Targaryen could be anywhere within the city walls, and it was their job to find out where that was. Belwas, Whitebeard, and Mycah had broken their fast amidst half-unloaded crates and barrels, and were practically shooed off the deck by Groleo before the food had the chance to settle. They shuffled down the gangplank and into the press of the harbour, already crowded with people even at this relatively early hour.

In this small corner of Qarth, the Valyrians reigned, and a dozen versions of their ancient tongue could be heard being shouted in arguments, or in the telling of jests, or the peddling of goods. Whitebeard heard Pentoshi, Lyseni, Volantene, and even the mongrel Ghiscari, distant as it was compared to the other off-shoots. Despite having eaten not five minutes hence, Belwas had eyes only for the food, and quickly disappeared and re-emerged with a leg of lamb drizzled in a thick white sauce and topped with licorice and juniper berries. Mycah kept quiet, interested only in finding the queen.

With the page sullen and the eunuch eating, it fell to Whitebeard to lead them through the bright brilliance of the Port of Qarth. Covered by a rainbow of rippling canopies, the glare of the morning sun was gentled within the ramshackle market that spread about the horseshoe harbour like barnacles on a ship’s hull. It felt like some endless, sprawling maze, and Whitebeard despaired of ever finding the little queen should she happen to be here. Whitebeard was used to the modest markets of King’s Landing that took up a plaza or square and a few street blocks at most; if a market of this size popped up there it would engulf all of Flea Bottom and then some, most like.

Wooden stalls stood shoulder-to-shoulder with winesinks, brothels, gambling dens, and temples adorned with queer carvings of gods beyond count or countenance. As they moved through the press, Whitebeard saw men of the Free Cities, men of the Summer Isles, men of Ibben, and Lorath, and Slaver’s Bay. He saw singers and sailors, cutpurses and catamites, brutes and beauties, orphans and urchins. Amidst them all walked the Qartheen. Tall, pale, and wary, they strode through the crowds as though they walked above them. Little wonder they would not help the queen, thought Whitebeard. The very notion of cooperation seems alien to them.

He turned back to his companions. “Let’s split up and ask around for Her Grace. Belwas, you start with the gambling dens - and try not to spend all of the magister’s coin; Mycah, you ask along the stalls; and I’ll try the winesinks.”

They had their plan, and off they went to execute it.

“Have you seen the dragon queen?”

The man did not look up from his work. “You here to buy something or just ask questions?”

Mycah frowned. “Have you seen Queen Daenerys?”

He put away his carving and scowled. “Are you dense, boy? If you’re not buying then fuck off, you’re in the way.”

He turned and left the stall, red-faced and angry. Mycah knew one in every three of the words, but Belwas had made certain he could understand ‘fuck off’ in each of the Valyrian dialects. That had been enough to know he would get no answers from the woodworker. He passed other stalls, and wondered if any of the other vendors would be more helpful, or at least understand the common tongue so he could say more than ‘Have you seen the dragon queen?’. He passed leatherworkers with saddles, boots, sheaths, and armour hung up on display; jewellers with rows of rings and piles of necklaces (though it seemed to Mycah’s eye that only the topmost ones shone as silver ought to); fruit stalls that stung his eyes and nostrils both; spice stalls heavy with scent from burlap sacks filled with pepper, cinnamon, cloves, saffron, and nutmeg. 

Mycah lingered at a stall run by two girls selling garments of coloured silks, running his hand across a dress made in Qartheen fashion where one breast was left bare. He had never had much use for dresses like these, but his … her sister … Sansa would have loved them, and gushed about the colours and the stitching and how wonderful it would have felt to wear one.

One of the girls looked at him. “Are you interested in that one?” she asked in the common tongue.

The sound of it startled him, and shamed him. “N-No,” he said, before striding off.

Mycah found a different, more appropriate, stall. A smith sat cleaning the dirt from beneath her nails with a small dagger, on display were blades of greater size and style, with a dozen different styles of hilt and a dozen different styles of forging. He saw fat shortswords, gleaming falchions, curved arakhs, and bravo blades as skinny as he was. His hand went to Needle’s hilt, felt the mark there. Mycah looked down at the blade, frowning. This … This is hers, not mine. It’s Winterfell, it’s the North, it’s the Starks. 

He grabbed the nearest weapon, it was a steel dirk with a curved hilt of ivory carved from an elephant’s tusk. The blade was curved as well, rising and falling like waves on the ocean and coming to a harsh point. “How much for this?” Mycah asked the smith.

She looked up from her nails to the weapon being pointed at her. “Two honours.”

Mycah reached into the pouch Whitebeard had given him and produced the coins. “There.”

The smith took the dirk from him, and slid it into a small scabbard that Mycah affixed to his belt. He took it out as soon as he was alone, and admired the shine of its edge. Mine , he thought. All mine. With this blade I will protect the queen, I will keep her safe, I will--

“Mycah?”

Whitebeard was in front of him when he looked up. The old squire noticed his new weapon quickly. “I trust you paid for that.”

He slid the dirk back into its scabbard. “Of course I did,” he snapped. “I’m no thief.”

They looked at one another for a moment, then Whitebeard said, “Belwas has a lead.”

“Seriously?” Mycah had assumed the pit fighter would spend his time drinking, eating, and gambling whilst Whitebeard did the actual work. “How did he manage that?”

“He gambled for it.”

The Onyx Carriage was a gloomy place, with dirty glass windows and smoke-stained walls. It was eternally dusk inside, and it was hard for Mycah to imagine what was unfolding inside could happen while the sun stood high and proud. The smell of stale blood and staler beer hit him once he came through the doorway, and he saw the remnants of some beastly fight within a hole dug in the room’s centre. The crowd was thick, but only a blind man could manage to miss the great bald pit fighter they were looking for.

“I bet milk man for talk of little queen,” Strong Belwas explained. “He think three dogs beat basilisk. Now he show us where silver-haired one is.” Belwas patted his great belly and grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

“Where is the man?” asked his squire.

Belwas jabbed a large thumb towards the corner of the room. “Sulking.”

The man was Qartheen, finely dressed, and clearly drunk. He was muttering to himself about dogs and eunuchs and the cruelty of the world. He explained, through a chorus of hiccups and belches, that he was Xerren Narkysos, brother of Xhother Narkysos, a member of the Tourmaline Brotherhood. What a man of such prestige was doing betting on dog fights with lowlives and cutthroats, neither Xerren nor Mycah could say. Belwas and Whitebeard practically had to carry him out of the den, and he moaned and whined about the sunlight hitting his eyes, yet he held up his end of the bargain (after some dry heaving and “a little lie down”), leading them out of the bazaar and into the city further.

“She has been busy,” the man said in a drunken drawl, “flitting this way and that, bribing him and her with such and such. So busy ,” he repeated, “like a little bee buzzing all about.” He giggled. “A queen bee! Of course!”

Whitebeard frowned beneath his silky white beard. “Where is she now?”

“I’m showing you, my friend. You cannot see it from here. Not much further now, though.” A few more blocks of sandstone and orange bricks and they were slowly cresting a hill, atop which was a fine view of the city from on high.

“Qarth!” declared Xerren Narkysos. “Isn’t she beautiful?” He leant against a nearby railing and sighed happily.

“Is this a jape?” asked Whitebeard angrily. “Do you expect us to spot her from up here?”

The Qartheen rolled his eyes. “Look for the smoke, not the girl.”

“What do you …” but Whitebeard’s voice trailed off as he spotted the plume emerging from the northern side of the city. It stood stark against the pale blue sky; rising, twisting, dancing. It was a grey so dark it was almost black, and here and there came twists of blues and purples that no normal flame could make. He thought of what lay in that part of Qarth, and his stomach dropped. “That’s …”

“The warlock’s palace,” finished their guide. “I told you she’s been busy.”

 

They were dotted across the Port of Qarth, waiting for the dragon queen.

They had set out first thing that morning, unsure when Her Grace and her entourage would be arriving at the harbour. They would be arriving, however, for they had nowhere else to go. Mycah stalked the stalls, a hand on the pommel of his ivory dirk, eyes peeled, looking for dragons.

During her stay in the city, Daenerys Targaryen had been residing with a member of the Thirteen by the name of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, a merchant of staggering wealth with a palace of near impossible size. He had aided the queen in her attempts to curry favour with the rich and powerful of the city, and while these efforts had ultimately been unsuccessful, it seemed some fondness had remained between the pair. Daxos had proposed marriage to Her Grace and been refused, and his offer of hospitality had been rescinded soon after.

It was true that the queen could have sought accommodation elsewhere in Qarth, but her exploits in the House of the Undying had made enemies as well as ash, and it was no longer safe for her to remain in the city. That meant a ship was needed, and that meant a trip to the harbour was a necessity.

Several days had passed since her conflict with the warlocks, and there had been much trepidation from Whitebeard as to her safety, though news quickly spread that the only fatalities from the battle were the Undying Ones who led the secret guild from within their strange manse. Mycah still found it all terribly strange, and held healthy doubts over how true any of it was, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He thought of Old Nan, and the stories she would tell the children of Eddard Stark, and wondered if the tale of Queen Daenerys using dragonfire to defeat a council of undead wizards would one day be told in the same hushed tones to a new generation of wide-eyed children.

Qarth had that quality, Mycah knew; and though he had only passed briefly by the wonders the city had to offer in his stay thus far, it was hard not to think that he had passed into a strange new world at some point. Had that been the storm off the coast of Valyria? Mycah remembered the dark red haze that hung above the ruined city, like a wound cut deep into the heavens. Thunder roiled above like the moans of a dying man, agony rent across the world.

Perturbed, he shook his head of the thought. Stupid, declared Mycah. Just a stupid thought. You’re the page, not the girl. The page. Mycah the Page was diligent, focused, reliable, obedient. He did not get swept up in flights of fancy, nor did he allow any little thing to distract him from his duty. Qarth felt like one big distraction, but it was one Mycah was determined to overcome.

The thought had come to him as he and Whitebeard went further into the city a few days ago, partly in the hope that they might catch sight of Queen Daenerys, and partly as a way to stave off the boredom of waiting aboard the Saduleon. Belwas might be content to lounge within his cabin and only step out to get more food or wine, but he and Whitebeard were anxious to find the queen and move on, and so had gone on the trip at Captain Groleo’s insistence that their grumbling be taken elsewhere.

Mycah had not let on, but he’d secretly been wanting to go exploring the other parts of Qarth, and had jumped on Groleo’s suggestion when he’d made it. While Whitebeard’s eyes had been downcast as the old squire grumbled about everything and nothing, Mycah’s had been everywhere but, taking in the strange sights that unfolded before them.

The port had felt as large as a city on its own, but it was really just a single part of Qarth. They spent a full day walking through the city and still couldn’t reach the other side. Whitebeard had grumbled at that, too, but Mycah didn’t mind. Qarth felt like a puzzle box waiting to be solved, and Mycah had spent that day trying his best to find some answers, but it felt as though the more he saw the less certain he became. While they had ventured out seeking any signs of Daenerys’s whereabouts, the trip had been so much more for Mycah.

It was buildings of a thousand different colours, built of marble, granite, flint, stone, and brick. It was glass windows stained and gilded showing the battlefield, the bedroom, and everything in between. It was ornate balconies, delicate and frail, with pale Qartheen sat atop them laughing and drinking. It was crowds of people from all walks of life - squat Ibbenese, dark-skinned Summer Islanders, tokar-garbed Ghiscari with absurdly-styled hair, Qartheen atop camels dressed as finely as their masters, Qartheen women with a single breast exposed, Qartheen men in beaded silk skirts, Qartheen children naked as their name days wearing only sandals and covered head to toe in bright body paint, warlocks with blue lips and hard eyes seeking vengeance, YiTish merchants with long mustachios peddling their wares, shadowbinders from Asshai hidden behind their lacquered masks, spellsingers, drunkards, beggars, cutpurses, urchins, bravos, sellswords, sailors, and priests. On the streets of Qarth, Mycah saw them all.

They passed by fountains wrought in the shape of mythic beasts that spewed forth clear water filled with rose petals from stone beaks and marble maws. They passed by squares tiled with polished stone where musicians played strange pipes that filled the afternoon air with gentle music. They passed beneath copper arches with sweet-smelling flowers woven through them and under covered alleyways where strange men watched them with shifty eyes. They went through (a small part of) the Gardens of Gehane, and Whitebeard had to keep stopping to drag Mycah away from the latest strange and fantastical plant they came across, but the longest delay came when a Little Valyrian emerged from the canopy to steal Whitebeard’s coin purse (partly due to the time it took them to catch the lemur, and partly due to how long Mycah spent laughing).

Everywhere they went, they asked about her.

Most had no answers, others had news they already had, some had praise while more cursed her name, but it was a wrinkled old crone who claimed to have spotted one of the queen’s companions delivering a message that morning. They found her hunched beneath one of the Temple of Memories’s floating oaks, nursing a cup of iced milk. Her eyes were dark and small, like two dried currants in the middle of a sun-scorched face. They reminded Mycah of the old woman who once told tales in the keep of Winterfell, though he quickly chided himself for recalling memories he had no way of knowing.

“He was one of you,” the crone said, “an Andal, from the Sunset Kingdoms. He wore a cowl but it did not hide his ugly face, nor could it mask his accent.”

Whitebeard frowned. “Jorah Mormont is no Andal, but the rest of it fits.” Mycah knew of House Mormont, and wanted to ask Whitebeard for more details, but he knew to hold his tongue. “Did you learn what the message contained?”

She smiled a toothless smile. “The Courier’s Guild does not divulge without due cause.”

Whitebeard grimaced, and fumbled for his coin purse. Mycah watched the exchange with eyes wide as saucers. A bribe! It was terribly exciting. The old squire dropped a pair of honours onto the crone’s spotted hand. He blinked and it was gone, vanished somewhere within her flowing robes.

“He wrote to an ‘Allam’ regarding a set of earrings and a necklace that he hoped to trade for in the city. He did not seem hopeful about the prospect, and feared that in order to turn a profit from the trip he would be forced to sell one of three prized daggers. The jewelry was still in good condition, and he would reunite with this ‘Allam’ once the profit was secured.” The old woman cocked her head. “Was that what you were hoping to hear?”

Mycah frowned, knowing what his answer to that was, but Whitebeard nodded. “More or less.”

He wanted to find out what the old squire had meant, but Mycah kept quiet instead. A page had to have obedience, he knew, though it made him fidget and fret. Whitebeard put him out of his misery once they had left the Temple and its floating oaks behind.

“It was a cipher.”

“A what?”

“A cipher. A secret code. Every word has a double meaning,” he explained, “done to keep the truth hidden from view.”

Mycah’s grey eyes went wide with awe. A cipher! He thought of secret codes the children of Winterfell had made in their maester’s turret, sliding them beneath chamber doors to the sound of hushed giggling. “Where was it going, do you think?”

Whitebeard’s mouth tightened. “To the magister, like as not.”

Blood rushed to Arya’s ears, and she saw the fat man’s yellow smile, pig eyes glinting in the torchlight. “How …”

“Did your father ever tell you of Ser Jorah Mormont?”

Fingering Needle’s hilt, she shook her head.

“I suspected as much. It is not a nice tale. Once, Ser Jorah was a stout and loyal bannerman to your father, and earned much acclaim for his heroics during the siege of Pyke. I know little of the details, but the man fell deeply in love with a daughter of House Hightower, and her … demands soon beggared him. She was used to the lavishness of the Reach, not the cold pines of Bear Island, and Mormont’s love led him down a dark path. Having apprehended a group of poachers on his land, he sold them to a passing slaver ship. A grievous crime for which your father condemned him to death, but the knight had fled by the time Lord Eddard arrived. Somewhere along the way he crossed paths with the magister and was sent to serve Her Grace Queen Daenerys … and sell her secrets to King Robert.”

Arya gasped, shocked. “Why would he do that?”

Ser Barristan looked sad. “He had been exiled in Essos for five long years, and hoped his work might earn him a royal pardon. He might have gotten it had Robert not died. The fact that he still stands at the queen’s sides worries me enough, but to know he still sends missives west does not bear thinking of. The man has no loyalty to Daenerys, and he grows more desperate every day he remains in Essos. We know the magister cannot be trusted, what would stop these missives from reaching the small council of King Joffrey?” 

“Why … Why would the magister sell out Daenerys? He wants her to be the queen!”

Selmy shrugged. “Illyrio Mopatis wants gold and power. The particulars matter little and less, I suspect.” Suddenly the weight crashed on him and he was Whitebeard once more. “Let us return, Mycah, and with our cloaks up, lest the spy is still lingering.”

Mycah, he’d thought, as they walked back. Mycah, not the girl. He’d forgotten for a bit, while the talk was of Lord Eddard and the North. It hurt to turn his back on the girl’s family, but he could not risk being revealed, especially with a spy in the city.

The spy had never shown, and it was Jorenno, captain of Joso’s Prank, that brought word of Queen Daenerys. He’d spotted her party that morning after returning from a night of whoring (at least according to Belwas), and rushed back to the harbour to warn them. The three of them had sprung into action a moment later, and spread out across the portside market, waiting for the queen to arrive.

Mycah caught a glimpse of Belwas, whispered, “Stupid!”, under his breath, and moved off. They were meant to each have sections of the port to patrol but the sellsword had obviously seen or smelt something interesting and come wandering over. Mycah glared at the back of his bald head and moved to cover the section he’d left behind. It didn’t matter which of them spotted the queen first, but Mycah wanted it to be him. 

He’d dreamt about it last night. 

In his dream, he was taller, a knight proper with muscled arms and a stern look in his eyes. He knelt before the queen and when she looked down at him he was filled with an indescribable warmth. All of their struggle, all of their hard work, all of it had been worth it. Mycah knew that with a certainty. Daenerys was everything he’d hoped she’d be: kind, graceful, beautiful, gentle but with an iron strength beneath it all. She was a true queen, and she’d promised to take him home.

After that they’d been in Westeros, moonlight peeking beneath the tree’s canopy, the night alive with the sound of wolves. Mycah had looked around and quickly realised it was not the queen with him, nor was it Belwas and Whitebeard. His companions ran on four legs, and their muzzles were red with blood.

He’d awoken with a start, able to taste the tang of it on his lips, and his mind warred briefly with itself. It was no dream of Mycah the Page, and all it brought with it was confusion and false memories. Anger too, once he was awake enough to feel it.

The girl and her wolves didn’t matter, though, not when the queen was so close. Quiet as a shadow, he moved through the morning’s crowds, catching snippets of conversations he barely understood. One of every five words were familiar, though that was High Valyrian and its offshoots; Qartheen was even less.

One word he did know was ‘sorry’, and he heard it then when brushing past a hooded man clutching tight to a carved wooden box. It was the word Mycah had used the most since arriving, brought out whenever his flimsy attempts at conversation failed. He was glad he did not need to learn any more than that - all being well they’d be out of Qarth before the sun reached its peak, sailing west to more familiar lands.

Mycah turned a corner, heard the tinkling of bells, and saw her.

The silver-gold hair and purple-coloured eyes put him in mind of the beautiful men and women they’d seen in Lys. It made sense given the island boasted strong blood ties to ancient Valyria, but looking upon Daenerys Targaryen made their claims seem almost fanciful. Here was a true daughter of the Freehold, and that was without mentioning the dragons. 

To his disappointment, they were not with her today; and, in truth, there was little of her appearance that spoke of a dragon queen. She wore no crown upon her brow, and in place of a dress lined with gemstones she wore a painted leather vest and loose riding trousers. Her shoulder-length hair was braided and in it sat a single silver bell that sang as she moved.

Towering to her left stood the spy, Ser Jorah Mormont. He was not what Mycah imagined a spy would look like, but he fit the description Whitebeard had given, and the great black bear sewn upon his waistcoat was known to Mycah as the sigil of House Mormont. Tall and broad, the man was bearded and balding, and scowled at everyone and everything he saw, save the little queen. Jorenno spoke of two Dothraki also in the party, but of them Mycah saw no sign.

He knew he needed to find the others and tell them, but he could not seem to take his eyes off the queen. She was beautiful beyond words a simple page like him could think of, and part of him was loath to disturb her, so serene did she look ambling between the stalls and ships with the ugly spy. Yet Mycah the Page was dutiful above all else, and so off he went to fetch the pit fighter and the old squire.

“We’ll follow them,” announced Whitebeard.

“But won’t they see us?”

The old squire frowned. “We’ll follow them from a distance.”

“But won't they see us from a distance?”

“Better than seeing us up close.”

“Why?”

“Because they might recognise us!”

“I thought that’s what the disguises were for?”

“The disguises …” Whitebeard paused, pinched the bridge of his nose. “We cannot just stroll up and introduce ourselves, child. We must be cautious.”

“Why?”

“Because our enemies have ears everywhere!” he hissed.

Mycah looked about. A man with enormous ears was selling mangoes, a child ran past, finger up his pug nose looking for snot. “Even here?”

“Especially here!” Whitebeard sighed. “Come along, Mycah. No more questions.”

“Is it not,” said Mycah as the trio slowly followed the queen and her companion, “more suspicious to just slowly creep after them like this? We want them to like us, don’t we?”

“No one is creeping,” Whitebeard insisted, “and they will only suspect us if they see us.”

“If?”Mycah gestured around them. “We’re basically the only ones here!”

Behind them, Belwas rumbled, “Mi-car right, Whitebeard. I take the Andal and you two grab the little queen. We have her aboard Saduelon before lunch.”

“Quiet, both of you. Look, your yammering has caught their attention. They’re hiding it behind the purchase of some brass plate but they’re only using it to spy on us. Act natural,” he said, breaking apart from the group in a swirl of robes. 

He watched as the old man perused the wares of a potter’s stall as the queen and her knight bartered with the brass seller. What is he doing? Belwas wandered forwards utterly disinterested in subtlety.

They were near enough, Mycah decided. He stepped forwards, and shouted. “Queen Daenerys!” but the words were cut off by a Qartheen who pushed him aside brusquely. 

The queen turned at the sound but her eyes were drawn to the man in front. He looked oddly familiar, though Mycah could not place him until he saw the wooden box held tight to his chest.

“Mother of Dragons, for you.” The Qartheen knelt and thrust the jewel-encrusted box into her face.

Daenerys took it, smiling. “You are too generous.”

Mycah huffed at being upstaged and watched mutely as the queen opened the lid. As she reached inside to bring out the gift within, the man murmured, “I am so sorry.”

He’s sorry? was all Mycah could think before everything happened at once. The gift unfolded and let out a low hiss, the queen’s violet eyes widened, and the box was sent spinning out of her hands by a whirling hardwood staff. The crowd about them erupted into shrieks and screams, and Mycah did not know where to put his eyes. A flash of metal caught his attention and he saw the spy bring the brass plate he had been haggling over down on Belwas’ head.

“You leave him be!” He raced over to the knight and tackled his leg, sending him down to a knee where Belwas rallied to knock him to the floor, brass plate bent about his head like some floppy helmet.

Mormont fixed her with a glare and reached for his weapon. He and Belwas did the same, but before blood could be spilled the little queen raced between them with arms raised. “Put down your steel! Stop it!”

“Your Grace?” The knight barely lowered his longsword. “These men attacked you.”

“They were defending me.” Daenerys tried to shake the sting from her fingers. Mycah wondered if Whitebeard’s blow had broken anything. “It was the other one, the Qartheen.” She looked about, and Mycah did the same, though the man was long gone. “He was a Sorrowful Man. There was a manticore in the jewel box he gave me. This man knocked it out of my hand.”

As the queen tended to the brass merchant, Mycah glanced at her other companions. They had to be the Dothraki Jorenno had seen, and that Groleo’s friend spoke of back in Volantis. Mycah assumed they were guards of some sort, to be in the queen’s company so often, and both looked like fighters. They stood either side of Whitebeard, no longer restraining him but not quite trusting him either.

Once the merchant was settled, Daenerys turned to face Arstan. “Who is it that I owe my life to?”

“You owe me nothing, Your Grace. I am called Arstan, though Belwas named me Whitebeard on the voyage here.” He remained on one knee, and accepted the staff that had been knocked from his hands after one of the Dothraki wiped away the remnants of the manticore.

“And who is Belwas?”

Makeshift helm removed, the pit fighter swaggered forwards. “I am Belwas. Strong Belwas they name me in the fighting pits of Meereen. Never did I lose.” He slapped his great big belly. “I let each man cut me once, before I kill him. Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain.”

Then it was his turn. Her purple eyes found him, and Mycah felt his chest tighten. Daenerys smiled, it was a lovely smile. “A child,” she said. “And what might your name be?”

“Mycah,” he answered. “I’m the page.”

“And why are you here, Mycah the Page?”

He could have said many different things to that, but Mycah knew the truth. “We’re here for you, Your Grace. We’re here to take you home.”

“Hold out your hand. Carefully. Not too fast, they don’t like sudden movement.”

Mycah nodded, and swallowed hard. He brought a hand out slowly, doing his best to follow the queen’s advice, but it was no simple task. He’d never touched a dragon before. Most people alive hadn’t.

Thankfully for him, three people who had were in the room with him right now.

Whenever he saw Queen Daenerys, Mycah was put in mind of what Whitebeard had said of the Targaryens as they’d pulled into Qarth: they were beauty itself. It was still the best description he could find for her, for she was lovely beyond any beauty he had seen. Mycah thought of Queen Cersei Lannister, of Lady Catelyn Tully and her daughter Sansa, of the myriad ladies at court in King’s Landing, and even the women of Lys shaded beneath rows of palm trees, and he knew Daenerys was more beautiful than them all.

It was an otherworldly beauty, as if Daenerys was not like the rest of them. Different, he thought. Better. How could she not be? The girl had birthed dragons from stone, she was a miracle worker, a magician, a witch. Sort of. Mycah had never seen her cast a spell, but there was plenty of time yet.

Her handmaids were pretty, too, of an age with the queen, though neither could hold a candle to her. They were Dothraki, and had been with Her Grace since she first left Pentos with her horselord husband, and both were fiercely protective of their khaleesi. Irri and Jhiqui had skin the colour of copper, with black hair and almond-shaped eyes common with the Dothraki. Where Irri was thin and slender, Jhiqui was big boned with wide hips and heavy breasts, and both had watched him enter with suspicion.

All three were dressed in the Dothraki style, with horse hair breeches and sleeveless leather vests painted brightly. It was comfortable wear, and put Mycah at ease. He was used to queens dressing in silks and samite and shimmering with jewelry. Daenerys had none save for a medallion belt cinched about her small waist. Mycah himself wore a white linen shirt that left his arms bare, and a pair of blue cotton breeches buckled by a brown leather belt from which hung his dirk and the bravo’s blade. He unfastened it when he sat down upon a large embroidered pillow across from the queen, leaving it at his side.

They were sat in the captain’s cabin aboard Saduleon, though the cabin was now the queen’s and the ship was now Balerion. Mycah was no stranger to a change in name, but he still found himself getting it wrong and having to be corrected - by Whitebeard more oft than not.

In truth, he missed the old names, and though Groleo and his captains had not fought the change, Mycah suspected they felt much the same way he did. Still, it was a fool’s notion to oppose the woman with three dragons at her back, and so the names of the three vessels that had brought Mycah and his companions this far east were now Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes - the three dragons that helped conquer Westeros the first time around.

The cabin was changed, too. What little Daenerys Targaryen had to her name was on display, with throws and tapestries hung alongside paintings on the walls as fine Myrish carpets lay across the floor. Trunks carved and varnished were dotted about, some half-opened to reveal the riot of colours within. Upon first entering, Mycah had jumped at what he thought was a great white lion laying atop the queen’s bed, only for it to turn out to be a pelt given to her by her late husband Khal Drogo. It was an amazing sight, and the beast’s skin was large enough to swallow Queen Daenerys whole when she wore it.

But all the treasure in the world couldn’t compare to the dragons.

All three had perches of their own to sit upon, though none were in use, and only one dragon was there with them. Drogon, with black scales and crimson wings, was the largest, and spent his days hunting far from the ships, torching any fish that came too close to the water’s surface. Rhaegal, green of scale and bronze of wing, was lounging above deck in the sun, leaving the cream-and-gold inside.

“This is Viserion,” Daenerys said, a smile across her lips. The dragon’s scales were cream-coloured while its horns, wings, and crest were a deep gold. He was curled about his mother’s arm, eyes of molten gold watched Mycah warily. A thin neck reached out to sniff at the hand currently held out in front of him. “He likes to be scratched here,” said the queen, running fingers around the back of his horns. “He’ll love you forevermore if you do that.”

Mycah took in a breath. “Really?”

She giggled. “Well, at least until you stop.” Daenerys gave an encouraging nod. “Go on, V’s the easy one.”

“Not true, Khaleesi,” said her handmaid Jhiqui. She was on the other side of the cabin, sorting through one of the queen’s many chests. “He singed my hair last week, and just yesterday he almost snapped off my finger when I was feeding him.”

Daenerys tutted. “You’re scaring him, Jhiqui.” She smiled again. “Ignore her, Mycah. I know you’re brave enough to face a fierce dragon like Viserion.”

He steeled himself, putting away images of him with hair aflame clutching at a bloody hand, and brought a tentative finger up to the fire-breathing beast. An eye followed him, but Viserion stayed otherwise still. “He’s warm,” Mycah said breathlessly as he ran a finger along the cream-coloured scales.

“Dragons are fire made flesh. Did your maester never tell you so?”

“I … never had one, Your Grace. Only highborn children are taught by maesters.”

A flash of light crossed her purple eyes. “Of course, how foolish of me. All I know of Westeros was taught to me by my brother, Viserys, though he was only a boy when he was forced into exile.”

He nodded, and kept his eyes down. “What happened to him? Whitebeard said they …” he glanced at the Dothraki girls “... he was murdered.”

“No murder,” said the other handmaid Irri who was scrubbing at a pile of linen in the opposite corner. “He broke sacred tradition, foolish boy.”

Daenerys turned and gave a disapproving look to her handmaid. “Hush, Irri. Mycah is our guest here.” She looked back at him, and a cloud passed over her comely face. “My brother’s death was of no fault but his own,” she explained. “Naked steel is forbidden within the walls of Vaes Dothrak - the Dothraki capital - and Viserys disobeyed this. He … He threatened my life, and the life of my unborn son, and with those words he sealed his fate. All our journey east Viserys had demanded a crown, and that night Drogo gave him one.”

“Melted pot of gold,” said Irri almost gleefully, “poured right onto Khal Raggat’s head.”

“Don’t call him that,” the queen snapped. “He hated that name.”

“What does it mean?” asked Mycah.

“Cart King. A Dothraki insult. When Viserys threatened me I had his horse taken away from him, and he rode a cart the rest of the way to Vaes Dothrak. The Dothraki believe a man not able to ride a horse is no man at all.”

“This is known,” murmured Irri.

“This is known,” echoed Jhiqui.

Daenerys looked away. “He was a king,” she murmured. “Whatever else Viserys was, he was that.” The queen ran a hand idly over the crest of her dragon. “I named Viserion for him, and pray every day that he can be everything my brother was not.”

“Was he bad?”

“Not always,” said the queen.

A moment passed. Mycah focused on the dragon. He had plucked up the courage to add the rest of his hand to the scratching, much to the beast’s approval. “They’re tough.”

“Dragons?”

“Siblings.”

“Oh,” she said, and the smile returned to her face. “Do you have brothers, too, Mycah?”

“And a sister.”

The queen shifted on her pillow. “Tell me about them.”

Mycah chewed his lip. They’re the children of the man who sent you into exile. They’re Starks, with cold eyes and icy hearts. It was all wrong. Mycah was no Stark, the queen had no reason to hate him. He brought his hand back. “There’s not really much to say, Your Grace.”

She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

He brushed his fringe aside, and found the truth. “I just … It’s tough to talk about them. They’re so far away, and I don’t know where they are or if they’re safe … so I try not to think of them too much.”

“Are they back in Westeros?”

He nodded. “It was hard to leave them, Your Grace, harder than anything I’ve ever done, but I knew if we found you it would be worth it.”

Daenerys smiled. “Well, here I am. I know they’ll be so proud of you, Mycah. It is no small feat that you’ve achieved, all for a boy of … ten?”

“Eleven,” he corrected. “Your Grace.”

“Ah,” she said, a smile behind her eyes, “forgive me. Most boys your age are … bigger, I’ve found.” Daenerys slid Viserion off her arm and into her lap. “Are your parents waiting for you, too?”

“My mother is,” he said. The thought of Mycah having a father felt unfair somehow. “I … I worry what she’ll say when I see her again. I never told her I was leaving. I never told anyone, really.”

Viserion nibbled gently on one of his mother’s fingers. “We will have to make stops before we arrive in Pentos. Groleo says we’re a week from New Ghis, could you not write her a letter there? Do you know your letters?”

“I do, but … a letter would only make her worry more.” He tried to give a reassuring smile. “It’s fine, really.”

“As a mother myself, I’m certain she wouldn’t concur.” Daenerys shook her head. “Really, Mycah, your poor mother is probably sick with dread.” The queen patted her dragon who grumbled and flapped up to settle on his perch while she rose gracefully to open a nearby trunk. She returned with ink and parchment. “Here, we can make a start now.”

“No!” Mycah cried, rising from his pillow seat. Atop his perch, Viserion let out a low hiss, cold with anger. The queen looked up at him, arched a brow. He saw the handmaids staring, and remembered himself. “Or … that is to say …”

“He lies, Khaleesi,” said Irri.

“He is scared,” added Jhiqui. “His eyes are wide as eggs of bird.”

Mycah’s mouth tightened. “I’m not scared,” he insisted.

“The boy should be,” said Jhiqui, unfazed by his resistance. “Only fool lies to Khaleesi. It is known.”

“It is known,” echoed Irri.

Daenerys put the quill back in its inkpot with a gentle clink . “My brother would have brought the truth out of you with steel and fire,” she told him. “Be glad it is me you sit across from, Mycah. I’ve no interest in threats, nor will I force you to tell me that which you would rather keep to yourself. We are little more than strangers still, though I should like it if we could be friends one day.

“I will not have it said I am an ungrateful queen,” she continued. “You and your companions have given much and asked nothing in return, and rest assured that Magister Illyrio will be well-rewarded for his loyalty. Yet I cannot say that same of you while mistrust lies between us.

The queen slid the parchment aside. “Forget the letter. She is your mother to write to as you please. It is naught to me. All I ask is that you tell me about her, Mycah. Tell me what she looks like. Tell me how she laughs, how she smiles, how she smells. Tell me.”

Mycah was still standing, all eyes were on him. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. The handmaids’ eyes were dark and unwelcoming, the dragon’s were sharp and hungry, but the queen’s eyes … her eyes were almost soft. From dark obsidian to a violet as warm as a sunset sky.

She is telling the truth, he realised. She truly wants to know. Mycah chewed his lip again. How could he answer her truth with more lies?

“My mother always makes me feel safe,” Mycah began. “Whatever happened, whatever scared me, I knew I could run to her and it would bother me no longer. She knows everything , Your Grace. There is no question she cannot answer, and no issue she cannot solve. My mother is warm, and kind, and even though I knew how difficult I could be sometimes, she never lost her patience with me.”

Mycah’s pace quickened, and the words began to tumble out of him. “Her hair is auburn, thick and soft, and she would comb it with rose water till it shone as sweetly as it smelled. Her eyes are a deep blue, and they sparkle when she smiles. Her laugh … she saved that for Father, I think. There was too much to do in the day for laughter, though she would smile to hear the sound of it from us children. On a night, when we were sitting about the hearth, she would sometimes sing to us if we were lucky. Usually on the feast days, or just when the mood was upon her, and her voice was so, so beautiful. I’d love to hear it again.”

By the time he was done, Mycah’s voice was thick with longing, and he had to blink away the tears before the queen saw them. Daenerys had not said a word as he rambled on, and when she spoke into the silence her voice was as soft as he’d heard it.

“You will,” she said. “I promise.”

Belwas was waiting for him outside, with a thirst for wine and a head full of insults. He told Mycah he was a suck-up and a layabout, and Mycah called him a big bald idiot in reply, then he went and fetched wine and food and the two of them sat and ate together above deck. Over the months, they’d formed a patchwork tongue of High Valyrian and Common that baffled most everyone else but worked just fine for them. 

Mycah took a spoonful of his broth and blew on it. “Do you like the queen?”

Strong Belwas took a healthy gulp of wine, and shrugged. “Strong Belwas has served worse. She is small, but strong.”

He took his spoonful and swallowed it. A bit watery for his taste, but not bad overall. “How do you know?” Mycah asked.

“You hear stories, Mi-car, you know what she has done. Belwas know Dothraki; only strong survive Dothraki.” He thumped his broad chest and grinned. “Belwas kill Dothraki. Belwas strong. Little queen cross Red Waste, found Qarth and killed the warlocks with blue lips and black hearts. She is strong, Mi-car. If not,” he wiped his hands together, “she dies twenty leagues from Pentos.”

Strong … like Robb. “She wields no weapon, wears no armour, how can she be strong without that?”

Belwas looked down at the boy. He is still so young. The pit fighter smiled, saw Draqh in those big grey eyes. “Do you see armour on me, page? Go to fighting pits and see if you find armour there.” He chuckled. “Strong is not forged in steel or bronze,” said Belwas. “It is forged with this,” he said, prodding at Mycah’s breast, “and this,” he said, tapping gently at his temple. “Remember that.”

The boy giggled, pushing away the great thick fingers bothering him. “I will,” he promised.

“Just so,” Belwas growled, mussing Mycah’s hair. He’d cut it shorter at the sides, leaving a great fringe that fell over his eyes and helped whenever he was brooding over something. “Or I’ll hold you down and cut this short as mine. That fringe will get you killed in real fight.”

Mycah wriggled out from his grip. “No it won’t!” He messed with the cut. “Anyway, I like it. It’s better than being a big baldie like you!”

Strong Belwas chortled, running a great hand across his bald pate. “Hair is distraction, something to get in eyes and be grabbed by opponent. I do not miss it, boy, and neither would you.” He drew out his arakh. “Here, you’ll see.”

 The page jumped out of his skin. “Keep that thing away from me!”

He turned and ran, still able to hear Belwas’s laughter from the other side of the ship. In truth, he was not really sure where he was going, content as long as it was far away from the pit fighter’s curved blade. Back at sea, with the deep blue of the ocean the only thing around, Mycah was feeling … bored. With dragons in the sky and new faces to meet it seemed a foolish thing to be, but he was. There was nothing to guard, no threats to remain wary of, all of the things that made Mycah who he was were suddenly cut loose, and he could feel the girl’s tendencies creeping in. He wanted to race across the deck, clamber up the rigging like he’d done on the Young Lady, play with the other dragons, swim in the ocean, tease Belwas some more, snoop after Ser Jorah, make a cipher of his own, learn Dothraki and ride with the queen’s khalasar (it had been so long since he’d ridden a horse Mycah was worried he’d forgotten how). He wanted to do all of it so badly, but … he couldn’t.

Instead, he went to find Whitebeard, hoping he was in the mood for a lesson. But the Dothraki were there, instead. 

The bloodriders were all young men, with smooth brown faces and facial hair still growing in, yet all three were seasoned fighters, and Mycah could not help but feel awed by them. Aggo and Jhogo were the two who they’d clashed with in the market; Rakharo had remained behind to protect the queen’s dragons. The trio were grumbling when Mycah found them, less than pleased at being trapped on what they called ‘the poison water’. Aggo and Rakharo were hunched over a barrel, tossing bleached chunks of bone and swapping copper coins. It was a game Mycah did not recognise, something Dothraki, he supposed. Jhogo was leant against the wall next to them, eating a blood red apple and watching his friends with half-hearted interest.

Mycah walked up to Jhogo. “What are they playing?”

His almond-shaped eyes remained on the game. “Vesofi,” he said. “Played with bones of horse. Vesof bones,” Jhogo said, tapping his ankle. “Is there no vesofi in Sunset Kingdoms?”

“No,” Mycah said in reply. “How does it work?”

“Is race,” the Dothraki explained. “Curve of bones is track, two bones inside curve is horse.” He snatched a bone from Rakharo’s pile, answered his curses with a grin. “See. Vesof has four sides, all not same. This horse, this lamb, this goat, this dog. You throw four, get all four type, move four space. Get horse, go again. First to finish wins.” He took a bite of his apple.

Mycah took the bone and studied it more closely. Each side was different, though not by much. “Why is horse so important?”

Jhogo smirked, Rakharo muttered something in his own tongue, and Aggo glanced his way before returning to the game. “Because we are Dothraki!” Jhogo roared. “None in all world know horse better than us. When we leave poison water and feel earth beneath our feet again, you see, Mycah. We show you.”

“I know how to ride a horse!”

He waved a hand. “You ride like Andal. We show how Dothraki ride.”

“I’m not … I ride fine,” Mycah shot back. “I’m quick.”

Jhogo laughed at that. “Quick? He is quick, yes?” He turned to his companions. “You hear? Mycah say he is quick.” Soon all three were laughing, and then came the jokes in the Dothraki tongue. Mycah could not understand the words, but the mockery was clear as anything.

It was more than he could handle. “I’ll race you!” Mycah blurted out. “I will!”

The bloodrider laughed and clapped Mycah on the back. “You are brave, boy. Quick? We may see. But Brave? Yes. When Khaleesi make land you will have race, and you see what quick is for true.”

Jhogo squeezed his shoulder hard and Mycah had to wriggle out of his grip. “You’re on!” He took a step back, not able to keep the smile from his face. “I’ll show you … you stupid !”

He was laughing as he ran along the corridor to Whitebeard’s cabin, and only stopped when he remembered it wasn’t proper behaviour for a page like him. Neither was arranging horse races with the queen’s bloodriders, but Mycah could not bring himself to confess to those plans - it was too much fun to pass up on! Knights need to be able to ride well, he told himself. I’m just practicing, like I do with Whitebeard. Mycah already knew what the old squire would say, so he decided he didn’t need to tell him about it.

Three firm knocks on the cabin door brought no answer, so Mycah opened it only to find the room empty. “He’s with the captain,” a voice called out from behind him. Mycah turned to see Harys, first mate aboard Saduleon - no, Balerion - with his bald spot and tired eyes.

“Thanks,” Mycah said, but the sailor was already leaving. He shut the door and made for the Prince’s Cabin, where Groleo had been moved to after Queen Daenerys took his own quarters. It was a downgrade, though not much of one - still far larger than his or Whitebeard’s cabins. He knocked again, though this time he got an answer.

“What?” Groleo growled.

“Is Arstan there?”

He heard a grunt from the other side of the door. “Come in, Mycah.”

Arstan Whitebeard glanced up from where he was sitting as the cabin’s door creaked open. The page stepped in, head held high, eyes big and wary as ever. The child looked half-Essosi nowadays, with pale skin tanned and dark hair brightened by the sun. Skinny arms were open to the air in a sleeveless white linen shirt, its hem tucked within a pair of blue cotton breeches buckled by a brown leather belt from which hung a curved dirk and bravo’s blade, though Whitebeard had not seen it drawn in some time. It was quite the contrast to the scrawny little thing he’d plucked from the streets of King’s Landing.

She was taller, had filled out to a far healthier weight with the aid of regular meals, and had even begun to add some faint muscles here and there from their training. Whitebeard knew it helped with the disguise, and that thought did much to assuage his worries over Arya looking less and less like a highborn girl with each passing day. We need not keep our ruse up for much longer, Selmy told himself, then she will be the queen’s responsibility, and they need not speak of knighthood any longer. He knew the girl would not take the news well, but there was nothing for it. Ser Barristan only prayed that time spent at Queen Daenerys’s side would help to temper Arya’s flame and make the prospect of life as a noblewoman more appealing to her wild spirit.

Mayhaps that explains how tightly she clings to her own falsehood? Ser Barristan had not heard her use her true name since they’d first arrived in Qarth. He’d told her of the risks in revealing themselves and talked her out of the idea, telling Arya as much as he dared of the bloody history between her house and the queen’s. It had convinced her, but something had made the girl cautious beyond expectations, reason, and even sense. He felt ready to bring the truth to light, but he feared that Arya did not feel the same way. Does she fear what is left to her once it does? Would she rather be Mycah for good and all? With all that was going on, Selmy hadn’t put much thought to it, but standing before him now, it was hard to see the girl behind those cold grey eyes.

Whitebeard gestured for Mycah to come over. The page’s eyes were drawn to the map in front of them, though they quickly looked back up to him as he said, “I touched a dragon.”

It took Whitebeard a moment to catch on. “Ah, you met with the queen. How was it?”

The page slid into one of the chairs. “I like her, she’s nice. Pretty, too. Belwas thinks she’s strong.”

“High praise,” said Groleo, moving over to the table. “Which dragon did you touch? Not the black one, I imagine, he does not seem the type to be fussed over like a housecat.”

“It was Viserion. The cream one,” he added, after Groleo’s blank expression showed the captain knew them only by colour and temperament.

He ran a hand through his black beard. “The quiet one,” Groleo said. “I trust you did not … provoke it, Mycah?”

The page frowned. “I would never! Why would you …” Mycah trailed off at the sound of Whitebeard chuckling.

“Forgive the captain his questions, child. I fear he is not as fond of the beasts as the rest of us.”

“It is not a matter of fondness, Arstan. The dragons are wondrous, but dangerous, too. My life is built of planks and sails. There is nothing I fear more than fire set free. From the end of a torch, within the glass of a lantern, fine, but from the mouths of flying beasts I hold no sway over? Only a fool would not think to worry.”

“This is why you wish to sail us south from New Ghis?” asked Whitebeard.

The captain grimaced, took a swallow of wine, and thrust a finger toward the old squire. “You did not see the storm, Arstan. Four-and-forty years I have sailed these waters, and never have I seen its like. Aye, we survived it, but luck was on our side, and the worst of it struck the deeper waters whilst I’d kept us to the coast. But the skies, Arstan, the skies …” He shook his head. “Things are different, now. Too different for an old sailor like me. The little queen … When she made her pyre, she brought back more than just dragons. Magic emerged from those flames, it blinked in the dawn’s morning light and raced off to shape our world as it pleased.

“Her Grace fought off the warlocks, but they were not the only ones touched by it. The glass candles burn; the spellsingers harmonize; the shadow binders smile behind their lacquered masks. Do you truly think Old Valyria stays silent?” Groleo looked from Whitebeard to Mycah, and back again. “You think I'm an old fool, and mayhaps I am, but I will tell you this: if we sail the Freehold’s heir and her three dragons past the Ruins, we send out a challenge, and it is one that won’t go unanswered.”

Despite Whitebeard’s many years, the talk of Valyria and its magic still made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. That the ominous words had come from the mouth of the gruff and no-nonsense Groleo only deepened his unease. Still, the change in route would add months or even years onto their journey, time enough for a clear victor to emerge from the war and make the queen’s return far more difficult. Magic or no, curse or no, there could be no delay.

“They say Sothoryos is just as bad,” he said gently as he could manage. “We shan’t have anywhere safe to stop and resupply until we reach the Summer Isles, captain.”

“Better than supplying fish their feed at the bottom of the Summer Sea,” he growled. “I know the risks, I do not need them explained back to me. What I need is for you to trust my word and bring my fears to the queen. You saved her life, Arstan, she will listen to what you have to say.”

Whitebeard turned away, and gripped his hardwood staff tighter. “I did my duty, Groleo, just as you can by sailing the queen’s ships where she wills them. Daenerys has a kingdom to reclaim, she will not delay her destiny on the basis of one man’s superstition.”

“Superstition?!” Groleo choked out the word. His mouth formed a hard line. “I was a fool to think you’d understand. Do you suppose I wish to sail these waters any longer than I must? My heart aches for my family, for my city. I make no mention of delays lightly, for each day I spend away from my Phira is a day I will never get back. If I could snap my fingers and wake up tomorrow in Pentos I would, but I have no magic. The magic is in Valyria, just so, and in the blood of the girl and the fire of her dragons.” Groleo sighed, and turned away. “Go, then. I ask nothing of you but to leave my sight. Go.”

Whitebeard winced. He’d been over harsh, and upset the captain against his intent. “Groleo …”

“Go, squire! Take your boy and go.”

They went.

He took Mycah back to his cabin, neither were quite able to find the words after that. “I shouldn’t have intruded,” the page said after a silence. “I just made things worse. I always do that,” he whispered.

Whitebeard leant forward from where he’d been sitting on his bunk. “We were quarreling before you knocked, child. The blame is not yours. Perhaps I should have done as he’d asked and brought his fears to the queen, but … we need to earn her trust. Groleo is a good man, and a fine captain, but sailors are a superstitious lot, old sailors even moreso.”

“He sounded scared,” said Mycah. “I’ve never seen Groleo scared.”

Whitebeard nodded. “He lives his life on the sea, every journey could be his last, and that knowledge hangs heavy on the mind, making anything and everything seem more significant than it actually is. We saw Valyria, child. Even from a distance, it is … fearsome, but that is all it is. Smoke and stone and stories, that’s all that’s left there. Do you understand? That’s all.”

Outside, the storm clouds gathered, and the first drops of rain arrived on the evening’s breeze.

Ser Jorah Mormont was angry.

It was a rare occasion that he wasn’t, nowadays. Qarth had brought salvation and stagnation both, and Jorah had never felt further from home than he did in the dusty streets of that far-flung city. Somewhere along the way he’d lost Daenerys, too, and others rushed in to fill the gap. Daxos the perfumed fool, the wine-soaked warlock Pyat Pree, and even that masked mummer Quaithe. All of them had earned the khaleesi’s ear to a point, and it had driven him half-mad seeing each prancing lickspittle whispering with her, making her laugh, lighting up her eyes with empty promises and backhanded offers.

One night, when Daenerys had spurned his company to dine with Xaro and his friends in the Thirteen, it had all gotten too much. A man could only suffer so much humiliation before he snapped, and Jorah had suffered past to the point of sense. Sat alone in his room, he hatched a plan to spirit Daenerys and her dragons out of the city, sell one of the beasts for passage east and another for a small fortune the two of them could live off. They’d keep the third - Drogon, perhaps, for he was the strongest and largest - and the two would live out their lives in Yi Ti or Asshai as he’d begged her to do back on the Dothraki Sea.

He’d pleaded with her back then, but there’d be no more pleas now, only action. There were certain potions that could put a person into a deep sleep from which naught could wake them; Jorah had seen such on offer within the markets and bazaars. One draught would be enough for her and the beasts, though he would give Daenerys the chance to come along willingly before administering it.

Even if she could not see it, the plan was for her own good. There was naught but lies for her in Qarth, and naught but death and defeat awaiting them in Westeros. They had no ships, no army, only each other. His way was better, he’d never been so certain of anything before. Away from her old life, Daenerys would have learned to love him back, and they would have been happy. He would have been happy, perhaps for the first time ever.

Daxos evicting them from his manse had felt like fate to Jorah, he’d use the confusion as cover and slip away from the stragglers still clinging to the khaleesi’s skirts. The trip to the harbour had not been in his plans, but Daenerys had her heart set on finding passage herself, and Jorah had taken one look at her smiling face and acquiesced. He imagined waking up each morning to that smile and obeyed her one last time.

It was all going as planned … until they came.

Three queer cronies of the magister come to offer Daenerys the ships she’d desperately wanted in one hand, and smother Jorah’s plans in the crib with the other. A dim-witted eunuch, a wrinkled squire, and a sullen-eyed boy was all it had taken to wrench his dreams away from him for good. It was a cruel jape. Their offer was one Daenerys could not refuse, though of course Jorah had tried his best to convince her. Despite his efforts, their meagre party had clambered aboard the three ships that afternoon and set sail upon the evening tide.

As they made their way west, the dragons soared; the Dothraki whined; and Jorah brooded.

Time spent with Mopatis’s men did little to soften him up to them. In truth, it only deepened the divide, and aroused his suspicions about just who the magister had sent to bring the khaleesi back west. Belwas seemed the simplest to deduce given his child-like nature, though there was every chance that was merely a ruse to mask more nefarious intentions. Jorah did not take him for a mummer, however, and thought it most likely the eunuch was the muscle there to enforce the magister’s schemes.

The two Westerosi interested him more. Arstan and Mycah, grandfather and grandson, squire and page in service to Strong Belwas. Jorah had never heard of a pit fighter taking on a squire, much less one as old as Arstan appeared to be. He doubted very much that the pair knew Belwas before setting off from Pentos with him, and Jorah wondered why the magister had chosen them of all people to accompany the eunuch east.

There was little resemblance between the boy and his grandsire, and while that is no clear marker of deceit, the boy was odd in other ways. Unlike the old man, his accent was of the North, of that Jorah was certain, but stranger still was the highborn pronunciations he so often defaulted to. Oh, the boy hid it well enough, no doubt following a stern dressing down from his supposed grandsire, but now and then it would slip out clear as day, though only Jorah had the knowledge to notice.

Daenerys spoke often of the treasons she’d been warned of in the House of the Undying, and Jorah struggled to look much further than the trio who’d met with them within the sprawling quayside of Qarth. His first instinct had been to attack, and Ser Jorah Mormont had long ago learned to trust his instincts. They were no friends of his, and thus no friends of Daenerys, either. The true struggle would be convincing her of that fact.

For one so young, she can be stubborn as a crone, he knew. Would that she had the wisdom of one, to see the enemies in her midst. Jorah knew he would have to make up for her lack. He would point out the threats and protect her from them. He would love her and defend her and give his life for hers if need be. He would be her strong knight, and she would be his love.

That would start with wrenching the magister’s leeches from her flesh for good and all. The trio now plaguing them were merely his pawns; it was the fat man that posed the true threat. Daenerys still thought fondly of him for the shelter he gave her and the hand he had in her marriage to Khal Drogo, and the ships and support had only furthered this delusion. She thought only of the sweet smell, and paid no mind to what it hid. It had happened with Mirri Maz Duur, with Pyat Pree and the warlocks, with Xaro Xhoan Daxos, and soon the same would occur with Illyrio Mopatis … unless Jorah could stop it.

So long as Daenerys felt she needed the magister’s creatures, she would not need his advice and do away with them, and - as much as he was loath to admit - the khaleesi did have need of them … at least for now. Her fighting strength was himself and her bloodriders, four men total, a far cry from the tens of thousands she’d likely need to carry out a successful invasion of the Seven Kingdoms.

No doubt the magister had some cunning scheme to help her muster such numbers once they arrived in Pentos - likely involving chests of gold and the shaky loyalty of several sellsword companies - but it would be no plan Daenerys could truly trust. The troops would belong to Mopatis, not her; a loan much like the ships they sail on and the men aboard them.

The khaleesi would be little more than a puppet, a mummer’s dragon just as the warlock’s visions had warned of, and the debt she owed the magister would hang heavy over her reign forevermore. Jorah would not, could not let that happen. Daenerys needed an army, aye, but it had to be one loyal to her above all else. The line of men wanting something from her would not lessen, Jorah knew, but at least this way they would have to think twice before taking it by force.

The question was: where could they find one?

As he walked the streets of New Ghis, it was this thought that pestered him above all others. The city itself was not overly arresting, so his mind was unbound by distraction and thus free to wander where it pleased. It was a port city, though a good deal smaller than Volantis or Qarth, and seemed to be frequented mostly by those intent on sailing up Slaver’s Bay to trade in flesh alone. It felt different to the other Essosi ports Jorah had visited during his years in exile, like everyone here knew precisely what had brought them here before they’d even set foot in the city. You did not come to New Ghis to take in the sights. You came here to buy and sell slaves.

Jorah and his companion were rather unique to the extent that they weren’t here explicitly for that purpose. Daenerys had told them to seek out opportunities within the city to bolster her strength whilst Groleo and his men turned more of the magister’s coin into trade goods to be returned to Pentos. The khaleesi’s command had been vague, and Jorah planned to use that to his advantage. Daenerys needed an army, and he had no qualms as to whether they were bought or hired. Jorah knew the man riding next to him felt much the same way.

Jhogo was Dothraki, and their people had practiced slavery for as long as they’d existed. Aye, their slaves were more often caught than bought, but he would not pale against the notion as some others might. The magister’s Westerosi would, he knew, though that may play into his hands should they kick up a fuss over Daenerys matching her strength with their employer’s own. If the gods were good, they may even be foolish enough to outright defy the khaleesi and find themselves dropped off at the nearest port and left to find their own way back to Pentos. Oh, yes. The more he thought about it, the more appealing the idea became.

He turned to speak to the bloodrider, his anger now lifted like morning fog. “You would not begrudge Khaleesi an army of slaves, would you?”

Jhogo’s brow knotted. “Why do you ask, Andal?”

“If we found a fighting force here that she could buy, would your Dothraki stand in her way? Or support the choice?”

“She is Khaleesi,” he said slowly, “and blood of our blood. We would obey.”

A moment passed, each man swayed gently in their saddle as they trotted slowly through the streets of New Ghis, and Jhogo recalled the fateful night when his life changed forevermore. His khaleesi had stood before her husband’s funeral pyre and pronounced all the slaves who remained with her freed. Some were still with them, and made up part of the meagre khalasar he and his fellow bloodriders now led. They would never again wear chains.

He looked back to the Andal. “Did Khaleesi ask for this?”

“She asked for us to greaten her strength. She made no mention of whether that strength need be free or in chains.”

Jhogo remained uncertain. “Khaleesi has freed slaves before, and has taken none herself to replace them. You say she would accept a whole army of them happily?”

Jorah’s face darkened. “I thought you were Dothraki. Was I mistaken?”

That pricked his pride. “There is no mistake, Andal.” He beat his chest. “I am Jhogo, son of Kovarro, bloodrider to the Mother of Dragons. I lead her khalasar, and protect her with my life. Dothraki take slaves, it is known. It is the way of nature for the strong to prey on the weak. I feel no shame over this,” he declared loudly. “If Khaleesi wants an army of slaves then I will find her one.”

The Andal gave a short nod. “Leave Daenerys to me. She’ll come around, she has to.”

They rode for a time longer mostly in silence, horses kicking up dust as they went. Jhogo eased deeper into his saddle, relishing the feel of it beneath him once more. He had leapt at Jorah’s offer to ride into the city, for it had been far too long since he’d mounted up. He was Dothraki, born in the saddle, and life without a horse to ride had felt like life with a missing leg. Aggo and Rakharo had also offered to go, but the Andal only wanted one companion so as not to arouse suspicion. Jhogo had won the ensuing game of Vesofi to decide who went, and the others had cursed him loudly as he waved them both goodbye from horseback.

As they neared the market square, Jorah spoke once more. “What do you make of the newcomers?”

Jhogo shrugged. “Belwas is a braggart, but he knows how to use that arakh. Some say eunuchs are men no longer, but only a fool would say that of him. Rakharo thinks he’s an idiot, but Aggo just says he’s funny. He has this one jape--”

“What about the Westerosi?” asked Jorah, cutting him off.

“The grandfather?” he asked. “Or the boy Mycah?”

“Both.”

He looked sideways at the Andal. “Why are you so curious for my thoughts?”

“What? A man cannot be curious, now?” Jorah shifted towards him, and dropped his voice. “Say some line were crossed, and these newcomers were our allies no longer. Would your Dothraki do what’s necessary to protect the khaleesi?”

Something in the man’s tone unnerved him. “What do you know?”

He leant back. “I know these three are loyal to the fat magister first and foremost. I know that they serve his interests above the khaleesi’s. I know we cannot trust them.”

Jhogo had to laugh. “I did not think all it would take to unnerve Jorah the Andal was an old codger and a scrawny little kid. You worry yourself over nothing, friend. What harm have they done?”

Jorah grimaced. “You do not wait till the horse has bolted, you shut the stable door.”

“What is a stable? You make no sense, Andal. The grandfather is an old done man whose bones creak when he moves, and my horse shits bigger things than that boy! I tell you, they are harmless.”

He turned away. “For now.”

Silence settled over them once more, and Jhogo tried to understand what had gotten the man so agitated. He saw no threat in the trio, and could not say why a man as capable as Jorah the Andal was fretting as he was. The magister was greedy, but he was no fighter himself, and there was no army at his beck and call. Besides, Magister Illyrio had given them ships and support and asked for nothing in return. It is the Dothraki way to repay such a gift in kind, though Jorah was no Dothraki, he knew. Perhaps they did things differently in the Sunset Kingdoms, and men peered suspiciously at the gifts they receive instead of offering thanks.

It made no sense to Jhogo, and he wondered if that explained why the men of Westeros remained backwards compared to the great cities of Essos. No people could hope to progress when such mistrust lay in the very building blocks of their life. He was glad to be Dothraki, to understand the bonds of fellowship and the strength of sitting saddle-by-saddle with your brothers. Khaleesi understood this, too. Jhogo had seen it when they braved the Red Wastes and death had harried them from all sides. He knew in his heart that she was the one to bind those quarrelsome people together and show them the way forwards. She is Khaleesi, and Mother of Dragons. Who else could it be but her? He made a silent prayer to the gods for them to show Jorah the Andal wisdom in this, and carried on towards the market square.

New Ghis was built stout and square, with little of the sprawling huts common to the cities Jhogo had seen. All roads led to the main square where the bulk of flesh was traded, like the city was built specifically to funnel the crowds there from the ports found on the south side of the island. Mother Earth fought valiantly against the axe and clay of man, with trees and bushes pressing close against each gravel path and dried brick building.

Jhogo saw palms of a dozen shapes and colours, strangler figs and nightwoods, soothesaps and silkboats, all ceding ground with admirable reluctance. The ground beneath them was scorched and ash-scattered, and Jhogo could see the burnt remains of blood grass here and there. It was fast-growing and insistent, and it seemed fire had been preferred to steel to stop the growth. Overlooking the main square was the sole pyramid New Ghis boasted, a brown brick eyesore that threw a curtain of shadow over the market when the sun got low.

This island had once been a paradise for plant and beast alike, but man’s arrogance had scarred it with axe and plough and scythe. Jhogo imagined a khalasar crashing down upon the place and ripping the pyramid down brick by brick, though he knew it could never be. No Khal would dare attempt an attack on an island city, much less one that offered a good price for his slaves. Yet a Khal with dragons …

There was a short, sharp horn blast just as they entered the market square, and both men reined up to see what it foretold. “There,” Jorah said, pointing to the western entrance. Through it came a column of armoured men marching in perfect rhythm led by a man wearing an iron half helm sporting a horsehair crest. They wore dark iron plate atop boiled leather, and each carried a shield and spear whose sharp points winked in the afternoon sun. It was an impressive sight, and Jhogo thought he knew what he was looking at.

“Unsullied?” he asked. Every Dothraki boy knew the story of the Three Thousand of Qohor, and held a healthy respect for the slave soldiers of Astapor.

Jorah shook his head. “Unsullied wear only leather, and look … these men are all Ghiscari. Unsullied are slaves from all across Essos. This is an iron legion, a pale imitation done to puff up the Wise Masters’ pride. They name them the lockstep legions come again, but they lack the training and discipline to hold a candle to their ancestors. They are freedmen,” he explained, “and serve for three years only. Their job is to stand atop the walls of the city and look bold. Even your little khalasar would run them through, I’d wager.”

“How do you know this?”

The Andal shrugged. “It is no secret. Aye, the Masters would denounce such talk as rubbish, but everyone knows the truth. What of it? New Ghis has high walls and water all around, not to mention the allegiance of the cities of Slaver’s Bay. Attack here and you’d have the real Unsullied to deal with, and a chance to know the difference in deed as well as word. Besides, armies come here to sell their slaves, not take them. Make no mistake, the Masters know that better than anyone.”

Jhogo watched the procession for a time longer, his mouth twisted in disgust. An army of straw soldiers. What could be worse? He looked back to the Andal. “No army for the khaleesi, then?”

Jorah the Andal smiled, and turned his horse about. “No army here.”

It was well past noon when the great cog Balerion pulled slowly into the port of Astapor to reunite with its sister ships. Arstan Whitebeard stood at the forecastle, hardwood staff in hand, wondering what to do next.

He stood, mouth set into a hard line, and watched as Captain Groleo brought his vessel into dock. The Pentoshi was in his element, barking orders as his crew pulled down their sails and slid slowly between the wooden piers. It was a dance between man and ship and sea, one Groleo was leading expertly from behind the captain’s wheel.

 The news of their new course had reinvigorated the man, and it was said he’d almost kissed the little queen when she told him. Groleo had gotten his wish, and their journey around Valyria was off … at least for now. How he’d be once they were on their way west once more, Whitebeard could not say, but it appeared that the captain considered that tomorrow’s problem - or at least the beaming smile he kept made it seem that way.

Whitebeard could not begrudge him it. Let someone get some joy from this detour, he thought. There is precious little to go around. Astapor was not a place for joy, he knew. It was a place of blood and brick, and one he’d sooner be well away from.

Would that such thoughts were commonplace aboard the meagre fleet of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, it might have kept them on their original route, far from the red brick walls of the slaver’s city. Yet the ill feeling towards the change had been confined to the cabin of Arstan Whitebeard and his grandson Mycah, and their misgivings had failed to take root within the minds of the other passengers.

Belwas was indifferent, as he so often was with matters outside of food, drink, and bloodshed; the Dothraki were no strangers to the slave trade, and they and their horses were certainly grateful for the chance to stretch cramped legs; Ser Jorah Mormont was his usual gruff self, though Whitebeard could see the smugness behind his dark eyes, for the detour had been a scheme of his own making; and that left Queen Daenerys, who had remained coy over the decision, seemingly reserving judgement until she laid eyes on the place.

For Whitebeard, the news had come like a bolt from the blue, pulling him from his worries over their return to Pentos and early plans for invasion, to right in the here and now. He was a military man, and such concerns were never far from his mind. Thinking purely in those terms, the Unsullied of Astapor were as fine a fighting force as Daenerys could hope to procure in Essos; yet their purchase would represent a line crossed, one that the queen and her cause could never hope to come back from. They would be slavers, and all of Westeros would curse their names.

The page agreed, for what little it did. There had been no secret meeting between  them, no grand strategy arranged, just a look shared when news of their change in course had been announced. A look that said one thing only: we cannot let this happen. If he were of a more religious persuasion, Whitebeard might have thought he and Mycah had been sent there by the gods for this very purpose. Daenerys had it in her to be a queen remembered by the ages, but here, in this slave city choked by red dust, she was at a crossroads.

Ser Barristan Selmy had spent the best years of his life serving royalty, and knew well that such decisions were common across a ruler’s lifetime. Moments of great import drawn to people of great import, just as the moth is drawn to the candle flame. It was in these moments that one saw the make of a monarch, the person they truly were beneath the crown. For Daenerys, it was but one in a long line of trials and tribulations. The choice she made today would mark her, but it would not define her. She had done that already on the Dothraki Sea, in the red wastes, in the House of the Undying. She had writ her legend upon the earth already, and it read Daenerys Stormborn, bride of Khal Drogo, Mother of Dragons, leader of her people, scourge of the warlocks, survivor. Ser Barristan prayed and prayed again that slaver queen would not need to be added to that list at day’s end.

Hope was hard to come by in a place as grim as this, but whatever scraps Selmy could find here he clung on to tight. Chief amongst these was the queen’s request that he and Mycah attend her planned meeting with the Good Master tomorrow morning. It spoke well of her instincts, for they had made no attempt to hide their disapproval over the choice. She seeks voices from all corners of the issue, shields herself from no thought or feeling offered. Rhaegar had been the same way, and Aerys too, in his younger years. Lords Baratheon and Lannister were never shy about hiding their true thoughts on a matter, and Aerys had welcomed the debate … once.

It was rare indeed for Ser Barristan to be the one offering opinion, his role had been to protect the king, not argue with him. He ran a hand through his long white beard. Mayhaps a few more arguments might have protected him even better, he thought. By the end, Aerys’s greatest foe had been himself. He was not alone in keeping his silence, however. Men greater, wiser, and braver than him had kept their tongues and did their duty; it was hardly fair to pillory him for a failing that stretched far beyond his own reckoning. Yet the thought rang hollow in his ears. They are dead, Selmy thought. The White Bull, the Sword of the Morning, Prince Lewyn, Ser Oswell, all dead, their tongues kept still forever more. And you remain, old man. Do you ever wonder why that is?

Her , Ser Barristan told himself. She is why I still draw breath. She is all that matters now.

His eyes went to Mycah who had emerged from below deck to blink in the afternoon light. He squinted as he looked about, though it did not take long for him to spot Whitebeard leaning against the forecastle’s railing. Mycah shuffled up the stairs to stand at his side. “Hullo,” he said, yawning.

Whitebeard glanced down at him. “More dreams?” he asked.

The page rubbed at his eyes and nodded. “They were so vivid … it was as if I were actually there running through the forest with the rest of the pack. We found a kill and began to eat it just before I awoke,” he said. “I could still taste the blood of the meal on my tongue …”

Selmy kept his eyes on the child for a moment. He had never put much stock in dreams, and he’d always believed the only matters that held any true weight happened when a man was awake, but he would be lying if he said the descriptions did not concern him somewhat. He glanced about the forecastle to make certain they were still alone.

“Dreams are oft just memories come to visit for a time. You had a wolf once, correct?”

Mycah frowned. “ She did.”

Ser Barristan chuckled. “It is just us up here, my lady. Your commitment is admirable, but you needn’t keep the ruse intact when we are alone.” He looked at her, smile fading slowly. “When was the last time--”

The page cut him off. “They’re just dreams, it doesn’t matter where they come from.” His grey eyes were fixed on Astapor. “All that matters is that we don’t leave that city as slave owners. Have you spoken to her yet?”

“I have tried, but she is never alone, and I fear my voice holds little weight so long as she thinks me a mere squire.” Whitebeard grimaced. “Mormont does not help our cause, either. Just last night, he said …” Upon seeing the knight emerging from the captain’s cabin, his voice trailed off.

Ser Jorah turned, saw them, and scowled. Then, just as abruptly, he began to head over. The crew danced about the deck, but Mormont paid them no mind, dark eyes fixed on where they stood. 

Though it had been only five years since Selmy had seen him last, it still shocked him how much exile had changed the knight. Though always tall and broad, Ser Jorah had added on ten pounds of muscle at the least, and the hair atop his scalp had feld entirely in that time. His square jaw now sported a thick beard, though it did nothing to hide the wrinkles about his eyes, nor the dark bags beneath them. He looked mean, was mean, and Ser Barristan feared what sort of influence he was having over Her Grace. Daenerys needed a knight to guide her and keep her safe, and the gods sent her him.

“What did you do?” Mormont asked once he’d climbed the stairs of the forecastle.

“Well met, Ser Jorah,” said Arstan Whitebeard. The old squire bowed his head, just to be safe. “Forgive me, ser, but I know not of what you speak.”

Mormont gripped his pommel and took a step closer. “Do not play the fool with me, old man. What did you say to her?”

“Who, pray?”

“Daenerys!” he hissed. “You promised her something, or … or else …” He grunted. “Why would she want the two of you with her tomorrow?”

The squire stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I have made no promises save to bring Her Grace safely before the magister, and I have not spoken to her in some days, as I was telling the boy just before you came.”

Mycah looked up to him. “What does he mean we’re going with her?”

“Ah, I was meaning to tell you. Queen Daenerys wants us to attend her meeting with the Good Master tomorrow, and offer our advice on the negotiations for the Unsullied.”

Ser Jorah scoffed. “Offer your dissent, you mean.”

The page gasped. “Do you mean it?”

Mormont answered for him. “Don’t get your hopes up, boy. It means nothing. Daenerys gets these flights of fancy from time to time that she’ll be a fair and balanced leader, but it never lasts. You can shout and curse and cry your way through your little meeting, and it won’t mean a damned thing. She’ll do what needs to be done, and we’ll leave this dustbowl with an army of Unsullied at our backs whether you like it or not.” He looked at them both, and laughed. “You name yourselves loyal, hells, it may even be true, but true loyalty is putting the cause above everything else. Kingdoms are won with men, not morals. The two of you may not know that, but Daenerys does.”

Mycah stared Ser Jorah down, defiant. The sight was almost comical given the size difference, but there was no doubting the page’s spirit. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” He laughed again. “I’m sure you’re right, boy. Who knows the khaleesi more than you?” Mormont snorted at his own jape and left.

The page’s eyes bore into the knight as he walked away. “I hate him,” the boy declared. “Why can’t we tell the queen about his letters, again?”

“Because such an accusation can only come from the mouth of Ser Barristan Selmy. We have no evidence save for his own testimony of his time on King Robert’s small council.” He leant down, placed a hand on the boy’s back. “In order to expose Mormont we must first expose ourselves. You and I both know the time is not yet ripe for that. Things are finely balanced, and one wrong move could send all our hopes crashing down. We must keep to ourselves, child. That means no bickering with Ser Jorah, do you understand?”

The boy’s face turned sullen as it so often did. “Yes,” he mumbled.

“Good.” Whitebeard leant against his staff as he stood. “Astapor will be enough of a trial as is.”

They did not set foot in the city until the next morning when the queen’s palanquin was brought up and out of the bowels of Balerion to brave the dusty streets. Mycah and Arstan rode to its left, Aggo and Jhogo to its right. Queen Daenerys sat within, her face a mask carved of ivory. Their horses were Dothraki, seasick and underweight, but just as grateful as their owners to have made land at last.

Mycah did his best to stifle a yawn, and cursed his wandering mind for the dreams that plagued him more and more each night. He was no wolf, he was a page - it made no sense for the beasts to hound his sleep as they had done. The queen needed him to be sharp, and here he was still half-asleep dozing in the saddle. It would not do. He was only grateful no one had seen him in the act.

It worried him how vivid they were becoming, and he awoke each morning with an eerie sense that he knew the woods he ran through and the wolves he ran with, as if there was a connection beyond the mere flash of images he got each night. It was Westeros, his home, and that may be all it was, but it felt as if Mycah were within the very fur of the wolf he ran as, tasting its meals and smelling its scents. It thrilled him more than any dream he’d had before, but it scared him, too. It was that which kept him from being fully honest with Whitebeard, as though the truth of his dreams had no place in the waking world.

As they neared the Plaza of Punishment, Mycah put all thought of wolves behind him. Wolves were creatures of freedom, and there was no room for that in Astapor. The great coloured flags that adorned the red brick square hung limp atop their wooden poles, and the heat was already stifling though the sun had yet to reach its peak in the spotless blue sky. Even the Astapori were not immune, and the Good Master chosen to meet with Her Grace lounged beneath a red silk canopy, the slaves either side of him were chained to the great feathered fans they were wafting.

His name, as Mycah soon learned from the mouth of the small dark-skinned scribe who’d been standing behind him, was Kraznys mo Nakloz, one of the Good Masters of Astapor and the head of the House of Nakloz. His amber skin was shining with sweat, though it was nothing against the oiled mess that was his black and red beard. His fringed tokar bulged against his enormous weight, making him look like some absurd perfumed babe to Mycah’s eye. He was not scared of him, but there was something in the slaver’s smile that set Mycah on edge, and when their eyes briefly met, he felt like prey catching the gaze of a predator. At that moment, he found himself wanting for a vast pack of wolves at his back.

The girl was more interesting to him. Her face was round, her skin dusky, her hair long, dark, and wavy. Yet it was her eyes that caught his attention most. They were large, and perfect gold, like two shining coins in the middle of her face. They looked across their group as the introductions were made, and seemed amiable and welcoming, but Mycah could see a deeper intelligence there, as if she knew some secret the rest of them didn’t. He liked her for that, and for her skill in tongues that allowed him to understand what Kraznys mo Nakloz was saying to Queen Daenerys.

Her Grace had decided on a ruse done to better weedle out the Good Master’s true intentions, which involved her feigning ignorance of the High Valyrian tongue thus forcing all of mo Nakloz’s words through the interpretation of the gold-eyed girl. It was a clever stroke, and would allow the queen to better mask her own intelligence and ensure the slavers underestimated her. Whitebeard - with his knowledge of both tongues - would hear all that was said, too, but Mycah was a different matter. His learning had stalled as other matters took precedence, and it was an easy choice to prioritise swordplay over language when it came to the best use of his and Whitebeard’s time. That meant his knowledge was limited to the odd word here and there, far from sufficient to best benefit from the deception Queen Daenerys had planned.

He hated being the one left out, but knew better than to voice his displeasure to the queen, not when they needed her approval more than ever. Her clear mistrust of the Good Masters gave him hope, but you need not trust someone to do business with them. She will not do it, Mycah told himself. She is good and kind and true. She will not do it. But the longer Her Grace smiled and passed on her words to the gold-eyed girl, the less certain he became. Why even meet with them if not to buy slaves? Whitebeard said it was not their place to question the queen, only to guide her towards the right path forwards. The right path was them leaving this awful place with no slaves in their company, but what it was beyond that, Mycah could not say. He believed that the queen would do the right thing, but the fact that she was even considering it left him cold with dread.

Standing still in their ranks, the Unsullied looked closer to statues than to soldiers. They were all men, all muscled, and all garbed in white linen clouts and sporting spiked bronze caps, but beneath the armour they were as diverse a group as Mycah had ever seen. Slaves from all over the world were brought to Astapor, and thus slaves from all over the world were made into Unsullied. In one row alone he saw Ghiscari, Dothraki, Lhazarene, Qartheen, Lorathi, Ibbenese, men of the Free Cities, and even a pale-eyed Westerosi. It was an unwelcome reminder of home for Mycah, and he wondered where the boy had been taken from all those years ago.

“The Good Master Kraznys asks, are they not magnificent?” The question came from the little scribe, though the words had been growled at her by her master. 

Eyes flitting from the harpy statue atop the fountain at the Plaza’s heart to the rows of Unsullied across from it, Queen Daenerys shrugged. “They might be adequate for my needs. Tell me of their training.”

The answer came after a moment’s deliberation. “They are chosen young, for size and speed and strength,” said the gold-eyed girl. “They begin their training at five. Every day they train from dawn to dusk, until they have mastered the shortsword, the shield, and the three spears. The training is most rigorous, Your Grace. Only one boy in three survives it. This is well known. Among the Unsullied it is said that on the day they win their spiked cap, the worst is done with, for no duty that will ever fall to them could be as hard as their training.”

Mycah looked back over the ranks, each man’s chest was bare, and their rippling muscles glistened in the oppressive heat. He thought himself a diligent trainer, never one to balk at the thought of hard work, but the Unsullied’s regimen seemed almost inhumane. His belief in this regard only deepened as the little scribe translated more of her master’s words.

“I call that madness, not courage,” said Whitebeard - the first of the two of them to speak. He tapped his staff against the red bricks to emphasise his point, tap tap. The slaver insisted they call their savagery obedience , though the reply only carved the knot between Arstan’s brows deeper. “Sheep are obedient.”

“They are more dog than sheep,” came the gentle reply, in great contrast to the brusque growl Kraznys mo Nakloz gave a moment earlier.

As they spoke, the queen had begun to stroll past the columns, studying the Unsullied in greater detail. A frown crossed her face, though it was gone once she turned back. “Why do you cut them? Whole men are stronger than eunuchs, I have always heard.”

Eunuchs. Men with the important bits cut off, he’d heard it said somewhere. Why anyone would want an army of maimed men, Mycah could not say. Though he knew better than most that it did not take a cock between your legs to be able to wield a sword. 

“It is true that a eunuch who is cut young will never have the brute strength of a Westerosi knight, Your Grace, but the Unsullied have something greater than strength. They have discipline. They fight in the fashion of the Old Ghiscari empire, and all agree they are the lockstep legions come again. They are absolutely obedient, absolutely loyal, and utterly without fear.”

“Even the bravest men fear death and maiming,” Arstan answered.

The reply came after some deliberation and a prod from the slaver’s whip. “Unsullied are not men. Death means nothing to them, and maiming less than nothing.”

Kraznys waddled over to an Unsullied on the front row, brought his whip up sharply and left a line of red blood on a copper cheek. Mycah hissed under his breath at the sight. The soldier merely blinked. Is that how the driver reacted in Volantis? Or were his masters kind enough to let him keep his heart? 

Queen Daenerys stopped a second blow from coming, and said to the gold-eyed girl, “Tell the Good Master that I see how strong his Unsullied are, and how bravely they suffer pain.”

The slaver laughed when the translation came, and the little scribe said, “The Good Master says that was not courage, Your Grace.” More growls, then, “He begs you attend this carefully, Your Grace.”

The look in the queen’s eyes left a pit in Mycah’s stomach. Kraznys moved to the next eunuch in line, a towering Lyseni, and took the sword the Unsullied offered up to him. The Good Master slid the razor-sharp blade up the eunuch’s torso, leaving a dripping gash in its wake, before hooking the edge against a wide pink nipple and beginning to work it back and forth.

Mycah let out a choked gasp, and his hand shot to the pommel of the bravo’s blade. “What is he doing?” Queen Daenerys demanded of the gold-eyed girl. Her master paid them no mind, finishing his butchery with a slash that sent the chunk of flesh tumbling to the bricks. Blood poured from the wound, but the eunuch did not move until his sword was offered back to him and he took it and sheathed it once more.

“The Good Master says that the Unsullied feel no pain,” came the scribe’s explanation.

“How can that be?”

“The wine of courage,” was the answer Her Grace received. “It is no true wine at all, but made from deadly nightshade, bloodfly larva, black lotus root, and other ingredients known only to the Good Masters. They drink it with every meal from the day they are cut, and with each passing year they feel less and less. It makes them fearless in battle. Nor can they be tortured. The Good Master tells Your Grace that she can expect absolute discretion from the Unsullied. She may set them to guard her councils and even her bedchamber, and never worry as to what they might overhear.

“In the other cities of Slaver’s Bay, eunuchs are often made by removing a boy’s testicles, but leaving the penis. Such a creature is infertile, yet often still capable of erection. The Good Master says only trouble can come of this, and thus in Astapor the penis is removed as well, leaving nothing. The Unsullied are the purest creatures on the earth. My master knows of men in the Seven Kingdoms who take solemn vows to keep chaste and father no children. These men live only for their duty, is that so?”

“It is,” said Whitebeard. “There are many such orders. The maesters of the Citadel, the septons and septas who serve the Seven, the silent sisters of the dead, the Kingsguard and the Night’s Watch …”

The gold-eyed girl relayed her master’s message patiently and politely. “Such men, though noble in their goals, live a life of torment and temptation, and such a battle against their desires must prove a sore distraction from their duty. The Unsullied do not suffer in the same way. They are wed to their swords with a loyalty no vow can match. No woman can ever tempt them, nor any man.”

“There are other ways to tempt men, besides the flesh,” Whitebeard objected.

“Men, yes, but not Unsullied. Plunder interests them no more than rape. The Good Master says they own nothing, not even names.”

“No names?” Queen Daenerys frowned at the scribe. “Can that be what the Good Master said? They have no names?”

“It is so, Your Grace.”

Kraznys stopped in front of a fellow Ghiscari and flicked his lash at a small bronze disk on the swordbelt at his feet. “Can Her Grace read Ghiscari glyphs?” asked the gold-eyed girl.

The queen followed the slaver. “She cannot.”

The little scribe bowed her head and repeated the exchange between her master and the Unsullied.

“What is your name?”

“This one’s name is Red Flea, your worship.”

“And yesterday, what was it?”

“Black Rat, your worship.”

“The day before?”

“Brown Flea, your worship.”

“Before that?”

“This one does not recall, your worship. Blue Toad, perhaps. Or Blue Worm.”

The scribe relayed her master’s words. “All Unsullied are named as such. It reminds them that by themselves they are no more than vermin. The name disks are thrown in an empty cask at duty’s end, and each dawn plucked up again at random.”

Mycah could not believe what he was hearing. Not even their names are safe … What is left to them? What is still their own? He tried to imagine waking up each morning not knowing what your name was, but he couldn’t. It was too different, too foreign, too wrong. Mycah looked at the queen, felt his heart ache. Where have you brought us, Your Grace?

“More madness,” declared Arstan. “How can any man possibly remember a new name every day?”

“The Good Master tells you that those who cannot are culled in training, along with those who cannot run all day in full pack, scale a mountain in the black of night, walk across a bed of coals, or slay an infant.”

Queen Daenerys turned away, her grimace coming before the words had been translated. As she did, her eyes caught Mycah’s, and he saw the agony within them. Once the answer had come in full, she asked, “Whose infants do they slay?”

“To win his spiked cap, an Unsullied must go to the slave marts with a silver mark, find a newborn infant, and slay it before its mother’s eyes. The Good Master says that in this way, we make certain that there is no weakness left in them.”

The queen swallowed hard, and for a heartbeat Mycah thought she might faint. “You take a babe from its mother’s arms, kill it as she watches, and pay for her pain with a silver coin?”

The fat master laughed when the question was translated for him, and Mycah felt the bravo’s blade slide from its scabbard ever so slightly. The gold-eyed girl relayed the horrors with a blank expression. “Her Grace is mistaken, the mark is for the child’s owner, not the mother. The Unsullied are not permitted to steal. The Good Master assures you that few ever fail that test, though the dogs are harder for them. Each boy is given a puppy on the day he is cut. At the end of the first year, he is required to strangle it. Any who cannot are killed, and fed to the surviving dogs. The Good Master feels it makes for a strong lesson.”

Tap tap tap went Whitebeard’s staff as he listened. Slow and steady. Tap tap tap. Mycah had never seen him so angry. This is not just a slave army, he thought. This is not just a slave city. His travels east had shown him the truth of the Essosi slave trade, and - to his shame - he’d become almost numb to it. It was cruel, but mundane, as ingrained in life here as the clouds in the sky and the dirt on the floor. But this was different. This was evil. 

Evil.

Evil.

“Evil.”

Mycah did not realise he’d said the word aloud until he looked up and saw all eyes were on him. The little scribe looked at him curiously, while the slaver’s face twisted in confusion though turned to amusement once the translation was given. He chortled and gave his answer to the gold-eyed girl. “The Good Master asks what a boy as young as yourself knows of such things?”

Whitebeard’s tapping had ceased, and Mycah felt a large arm land on his shoulder. “Quite right, Mycah. We are not here to judge.”

“Then why are we here?” he snapped. “There is little else to do in a place as vile as this. In Volantis, you said this wasn’t our fight. Do you still believe that? How? How can you accept a place like this? How can you accept a world like this?”

The squire’s grip tightened. “You speak out of turn, child. When Her Grace wants your opinion she will ask for it.”

“And if she never does? Am I to stay quiet whilst she stoops to lower and lower depths?” He pushed out of the old man’s grasp. “Mayhaps Her Grace will grant me a wood staff like yours for the next meeting. That way we can both tap tap away as she sells her soul to this … this hell !”

“That’s enough.” The queen’s voice was as sharp as the Good Master’s whip. “Wait for us by the litter, page. I’ve heard your thoughts on the matter well enough.”

He looked at her. Queen Daenerys was more tired than angry, and that made it worse somehow. Enough of the fight left him, and he remembered his courtesies. “As Her Grace commands,” he said, though his voice rang hollow. Mycah gave a stiff bow, and left.

He overheard the gold-eyed girl as he walked away. “The Good Master has kindly offered to cut your boy as part of any deal you come to today. He says such rage is an unwelcome distraction, and stems from the testicles. Removing them would make him a deal more obedient, though still a mere shadow when compared to the Unsullied, naturally.”

No words were exchanged on the journey back, and Mycah rode alone - Whitebeard spent the trip with the queen inside her litter, speaking of what Mycah could not say.

Ser Jorah Mormont was awaiting them on the deck of Balerion when they returned. He bowed his head to the queen. “Your Grace. The slavers have come and gone. Three of them, with a dozen scribes and as many slaves to lift and fetch. They crawled over every foot of our holds and made note of all we had.” The knight walked her aft. “How many men do they have for sale?”

“None,” she snapped. “They sell eunuchs, not men. Eunuchs made of brick, like the rest of Astapor. Shall I buy eight thousand brick eunuchs with dead eyes that never move, who kill suckling babes for the sake of a spiked hat and strangle their own dogs? They don’t even have names. So don’t call them men, ser.”

Mycah hovered by the railing, watching the argument intently. “Khaleesi,” said Mormont, “the Unsullied are chosen as boys, and trained--”

“I have heard all I care to of their training.” He saw tears welling in the queen’s violet eyes, and a second after a pale hand flashed up and cracked Ser Jorah across the face.

The knight touched the cheek she’d slapped. “If I have displeased my queen--”

“You have. You’ve displeased me greatly, ser. If you were my true knight, you would never have brought me to this vile sty.”

“As Your Grace commands. I shall tell Captain Groleo to make ready to sail on the evening tide, for some sty less vile.”

Yes! Mycah thought.

“No,” Daenerys said. The queen looked about, and Mycah did the same, seeing that he was no longer the only one watching them. The sound of the slap had stopped all. “I want to sail now, not on the tide, I want to sail far and fast and never look back. But I can’t, can I? There are eight thousand brick eunuchs for sale, and I must find some way to buy them.” And with that she left them, and went below.

“She struck him!” Mycah whispered after stopping next to Whitebeard. “She struck him, and scolded him, and walked away!” He tugged on Whitebeard’s sleeve. “We should tell her about the letters while she’s already angry with him, right?”

The old squire sighed. “She also stopped us from leaving, child. She agonises over the choice, but if what we saw and heard today did not convince her, I fear nothing truly can.”

“You can’t say that! You can’t just … give up!”

“When the battle is lost, only the fools and the damned keep on fighting. We have done all we can, it’s in the hands of the gods now.”

“That’s stupid,” Mycah said. “You keep fighting till you win.”

He left the old squire, returned to the cabin, and spent the rest of the evening studying his High Valyrian, though the words refused to stick. He put aside the lists Whitebeard had made for him frustrated and with only a few new terms to speak of: slave, dog, pain, whip, and blood. 

Sleep came to him no more easily than the words had, and Mycah left his sweat-stained bunk heartsick and tired. He crept past where Whitebeard was snoring lightly, and stepped out into the night air. It was cooler by the water, and cooler still now the blazing sun had long since set. Mycah stood by the ship’s railing, and saw the pyramids lit by a thousand lanterns, each a star within a red brick sky. In spite of everything, it could be beautiful, he thought sadly. If they let it, it could be good.

“Can’t sleep?”

Mycah turned at the sound of the queen’s voice, and straightened from his slump almost on instinct. In the dim light, her silver-gold hair shone like a beacon, and her violet eyes were dark and stormy in the gloom. She wore a loose nightshift, and her hair fell free to brush against her shoulders. Shorn of crown and silk and jewels, she looked … normal, like a girl of five-and-ten ought to look.

He looked back out onto the bay as Queen Daenerys moved up next to him. This close, he could smell her: lavender and orange blossom, though it was only faint. Mycah smelt of sweat, and his own hair was a tousled mess. Stood next to her, he had never felt so unworthy.

“I can’t sleep most nights, Your Grace.”

She frowned at that. “You need your sleep, Mycah, you’re a growing boy. Would you prefer your own cabin? I’m lucky neither of my handmaids snore, I hate the feeling of an empty bed.”

“The cabin is fine,” he said. Mycah picked at a patch of peeling skin on his arm. “It’s just bad dreams.”

“I know those well. Mine were always about dragons, though they stopped once my own ones hatched. What about yours?”

“Wolves,” said Mycah. “It’s always wolves.”

Queen Daenerys smiled. “Then we must needs find you a wolf once we get to Westeros. There are wolves in Westeros, aren’t there?”

I had a wolf, once. I was a wolf, once. He nodded. “There are some in the Riverlands, though most are in the North. They prefer the cold, I think.”

“Then they’ve certainly found the place for it. All Viserys ever told me of the North was how cold and empty it was. As large as the other kingdoms put together, but with less people than any of them. Is it true they get snow there even during summer?”

Mycah had to smile at her fascination. “They’re only ever mild, and never come during the height of the season. Late summer snows are an ill omen, Your Grace, for they warn of autumn’s arrival, and winter always looms over autumn’s shoulder.”

“Snow in summer,” she said, shaking her head. “I’d dread to see what winter looks like there.”

Memories of a childhood Mycah the Page had no part in flashed past his eyes. “I never saw it, but Father always warned us of the hardship. People had to band together, or else none of them would survive.” The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.

The queen caught his eyes. “Is that where you’re from, Mycah? Forgive me, I never thought to ask.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Your Grace. The North is my home,” he admitted, “I miss it every day. Especially in this heat.”

She laughed at that, and Mycah felt an ease settle over him at the sound. “Astapor could do with a bout of summer snow, I think.” He smiled in response, and a moment’s silence settled. Balerion bobbed slowly in the water, like some great cradle being rocked back and forth. “Perhaps that’s where your wolves come from, if they run through the forests of your home.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “It’s definitely Westeros.”

The queen gave a faint nod, and her eyes wandered up to the night sky. “The Stark banner is a wolf, is it not?”

Mycah took care to keep the panic he felt beneath the surface, and when he spoke his voice sounded small. “It’s a direwolf,” he said. “They can grow as large as horses.”

The queen’s eyes met his again. “Truly? That would be a sight to see.”

“The North is full of those. I could show you … y’know, once the fighting is done.”

Queen Daenerys tucked a loose strand of hair behind an ear. “That is a kind offer, though I fear I would be less than welcome.”

The war, he remembered. “Much has changed since King Robert first took the throne, Your Grace. The North declared war on the Iron Throne just before we left, and the land was split between four different kings. Were you to make land there, I know you would get the support you need.”

“Arstan gave me a report on the Seven Kingdoms shortly after we set sail, and he told me the North already had a king. Unless you mean to tell me the Northmen would overthrow this boy Robb Stark in favour of me, I see no reason to seek support from that frigid place.”

Mycah could feel the rotten ice beneath his feet, but he pressed on anyway. “King Robb has no interest in the Iron Throne, Your Grace. If you were to aid him in his fight against the Lannisters, there could be an alliance between you both.”

Her mouth formed a hard line. “His father helped steal my father’s throne, why would the son be any different? I will find my allies in Dorne, the Reach, and the Iron Isles. The North holds only foes, Mycah.”

It took all his might to hold his tongue, but he was a page, and a page was obedient above all. “I’m not a foe,” he whispered.

“No,” she said, smoothing out the ruffles of his hair. “That you are not.”

Mycah froze at the sudden touch, but made no move against it. Her fingers were soft and gentle, and it seemed to relax her a little. “People want a change,” he said. “You can be that change, Your Grace.”

She hummed, pulled her hand away. “Ser Jorah once told me all the people want for is rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends.”

He took care to keep his thoughts about the knight to himself. “I can’t say you’ll do all of those things, but a true queen protects her people, offers aid when the rains don’t come, and brings the realm together when summer ends. If you show them you can do that, the people will stand at your back.”

The queen smiled, though it was a weary one. “You speak with such certainty for one so young. How can you know they’ll come to my side?”

“Because we did,” said Mycah. “We came for the same reason that every man across the Seven Kingdoms will come when the time arrives. We came because we need you. Westeros needs you.”

Queen Daenerys let out a breath from her nose that might have been a laugh. “You’re not what I expected you to be, Mycah. You’re different.”

“Different?”

“Yes, different. You speak with clarity, and certainty. It’s surprising.”

Mycah felt a flush on his cheeks. “Her Grace flatters me. I only say what I think is true.”

She took his wrist and squeezed it. “I’d have it no other way.”

Mycah chewed his lip. “Then … Then hear this truth, Your Grace. Don’t give these slavers a single coin. Leave this place and its horrors behind and move on. Go to the people that need you most, and give them a queen they need and deserve. Please, Your Grace, do not make yourself a slaver.”

The queen’s hand slipped from his wrist, and she turned away. Her violet eyes shone in the moonlight. “Get some rest, Mycah. Tomorrow shall be a busy day.”

“But-”

The feel of a hand cupping his cheek cut off all further protest. Against the evening chill, it was welcome warmth. “You are a good page, loyal and true. Please know that your counsel does not fall on deaf ears. Now go.”

He hesitated, though he knew he shouldn’t. A page is obedient, Mycah knew. He does not defy a command. He does not hesitate to obey. Yet he could not give up this fight, much as a part of him wanted to. It was wrong, she was wrong, but he was duty bound to stand aside and let it happen. He thought of the Unsullied, who had their hearts ripped out and obedience put in its place, who stared blank-eyed and silent at the cruelties of the world, for no cruelty they saw could ever match that which they had already suffered.

His heart was aching, and he could feel it pounding, wrenching in his chest. What-now, it went, what-now, what-now, what-now. Mycah had no answer, and so all he did was swallow his rage, bow his head, and walk back to the cabin in silence, wishing for all the world he was a direwolf instead of a page.

In restless sleep, the child dreamt.

The grey-coat queen strode to the crest of the hill, and looked down at the forest she ruled. Moon’s light cut through the clouds, bathing the canopy in its glow. She could see and hear and smell for long leagues from this height, and all of it was hers. Queen of the Woods, Queen of the Pack. That pack grew more and more each day, a marker of her strength, and of her leadership. She fought for what she ruled, snarled and bit and scratched for each new brother and sister. Always more, always bigger. 

It was a family of sorts, though the direwolf knew her true family was still out there, scattered like leaves in the wind. Even the man-pup, the girl, she was out there still, though the direwolf had lost her scent many moons ago. If the girl were dead, she would know it, for no amount of rocks or stones could sever the bond they held. The direwolf did not miss her as she once did, and she knew that a life at the girl’s side would have been a life spent in the world of man, not wolf, and the world of man was dangerous. Men had killed her sister, so sweet and gentle, but dead before her time. The direwolf swore to herself that she would not let that happen again, and so when she heard the shrill whine of one of her new sisters, there was no hesitation before she raced down the hill to help.

Amidst a clearing of oaks and pines and sentinels lay the corpse of a rabbit, still warm. A trifling prize, though it had been enough to bring a different pack out from the trees. Her sister lay on her haunches, grey fur turned red from a wound at her side. She had not surrendered, though death loomed from all sides in the claws and muzzles of the three strangers.

Padding across the pines, the direwolf let out a low growl, turning three sets of eyes to her. One had black fur dappled with red, the other pale silver with streaks of midnight, but she had eyes only for the big one. She was no direwolf, but it was a near thing. A pale straw-coloured coat showed signs of blood and struggle, though it was not hers. Three sets of fangs emerged to answer the direwolf’s growl with their own, but she was not afraid. These were her woods. This was her home.

The big one snarled and the smaller two leapt forwards, Black closed the gap whilst Silver snarled and spit. Wait, a voice told her. She kept still, let them spread apart, moving to either side of her. Now go! it said. She went.

She bowled into Black, leaving Silver to snap at wind, and sent the smaller wolf crashing against a nearby trunk. He landed in the bushes with a crunch and a yelp, and Silver filled the gap as soon as it had been opened. He was brave, but weak, and his bite barely broke the skin. The direwolf shook him off, and raked her claw across his snout to send him stumbling away. She turned just in time to see the big one come crashing into her, and the pair of them rolled and scratched and bit till the direwolf was on her back, pinned down beneath the weight.

Jaws made to clamp down against her throat but she fought against them, twisting her body this way and that so the target was never set. Her eyes rolled about wildly looking for an escape, and her legs thrashed feebly against the forest floor, terrified of the slathering fangs that loomed above. The direwolf howled and snarled and spat, making an awful racket, but the same little voice came back to cut through the chaos.

Easy, girl. Calm down. Think.

She did not think. She was a direwolf. Stronger, fiercer, braver, better. No wolf could hurt her, not even one as large as this. Aye, they were large, but she was larger still. The direwolf slid her paws under her foe’s belly, felt blood well hot and sticky, and pushed hard. The big one flipped tail over teeth and landed hard on her back, yelping out with pain. She was on them in a grey flash, knocking them back to the ground when they tried to rise and ripping at a leg to cripple, but not kill.

To her credit, she fought on longer than most, but, eventually, scratched and bloodied, she lay down and showed her belly to the direwolf. It was one of hundreds she’d seen, though few had been as hard-earned. She padded over and nudged the wolf to her feet, welcoming her and the others into the pack. A moment later a flood of brothers and sisters arrived to lick her wounds and take in the scents of the newcomers.

You’re strong, said the voice, and so much bigger. She checked on her wounded sister, licked at the scratch, and nudged her to her feet. I thought this was a dream at first, but it’s not, is it? It’s real. The direwolf shook her head, and padded off, the rest falling in behind her. Do you remember me? the voice asked. It must feel like a lifetime ago. She scooped up the dead rabbit in her jaws, the spoils of her fight, and slipped through the trees. It’s okay if you don’t. I hurt you bad the last time we saw each other. 

The direwolf snorted, thinking that it did not like the voice in its head.

Nymeria …

She bared her teeth, let out a low grumble. Not that name.

That’s the name I gave you, said the voice. After the Warrior Queen of the Rhoyne. You’ve grown into it, it said. You’re a queen, too, now, a Queen of the Woods.

The direwolf bit into her meal, relishing the rush of blood that burst forth. No meal tasted half so sweet as one hard earned.

Do you remember my name? she asked, ever insistent.

Nymeria looked up from the rabbit, ears turned back, waiting for the answer.

It’s Arya, said her old master. Arya Stark.

“Please, Your Grace, I beg you for the last time, hear me. Do not do this thing.”

The holds were already half-empty, the passengers and their belongings were packed up and gone, the deal with the Good Masters already signed in ink and blood alike, and yet still Captain Groleo protested.

Arya Stark admired his stubbornness, though she herself was long past the point of begging. The Pentoshi had seen his hopes of a safe journey home go up in flames when the terms of the deal had been passed on. All three of Magister Illyrio’s ships, along with every bit of traded goods within them, were to be given over in part for the purchase of every Unsullied soldier (trained or untrained) within the city of Astapor.

Whitebeard said Groleo had gone pale as a ghost when the queen told him, and had tried everything he could think of to convince her to change her mind. He spoke of the dangers of the demon road, of the length of time it would take to march such a force all the way back to Pentos, of the poor repayment of the magister’s trust by selling his things without his knowing, of the worse repayment of his loyalty by selling his prized ship after he sailed halfway across the world to deliver supporters to her cause and a safe journey back to her home, he even spoke of the shame he would suffer as a captain without a ship. He told her much, and Queen Daenerys listened to it all in silence, before answering with a simple shake of the head. Arya pitied his plight. He was not the first whose faith in the queen had been betrayed.

Looking back, it was not that surprising, really. Only a fool would put their faith in a mother who’d willingly sell their own child. Arya only wished her true nature had been revealed sooner, that way she could be on her way home at this very moment. Better late than never, she thought, reaching inside her good cloak for the reassuring weight of her coin purse. It held her and Whitebeard’s emergency fund, coin they’d squirreled away in case an escape was needed. Well, it was needed now, and Arya was determined to put it to good use today, finding them passage back west.

Astapor was not as busy a port as Qarth or Volantis, but so long as the slave trade was alive and well, there would always be ships in its harbour. She was not fussy over where those ships would take them, so long as it was westward and far away from Pentos and the fat man’s guards. Volantis would be a start, but Lys or Tyrosh would be better, and any port in Westeros better still, though she was less than certain any ships from Astapor would be bound for a land that outlawed the practice that kept the very place alive.

I do not belong here, Arya thought as her eyes moved over the city’s horizon. This is not my place. We sailed too far from home, and now we are lost. She had that same sickly pit in her belly that she used to get when she was little and wandered too far in the godswood, though it only made her angry now. Arya hated feeling weak. She took the thought in her jaws and chewed on it, letting the rage focus her, and steel her heart in armour nothing could pierce. She was a warrior, a survivor, a direwolf, and she was going home.

The queen’s Silver was readied, and she took Aggo’s hand as she vaulted up onto the saddle. “It is done, Groleo,” said Daenerys. 

Yes, it is, thought Arya, sliding off her perch atop the wall. The queen’s party was lined up and ready to depart, though she was not with them. Never again would Arya stand at the side of Daenerys Targaryen. She had sworn it by the old gods and the new. Once she was home, Arya would find Robb and her mother and warn them about the dragon queen and her slave army that were coming from the east. She would make sure the North was ready, and fight with everything she had to keep it safe. So absorbed in her anger was Arya that she totally missed the voice calling her name - well, her other name.

“Mycah? Have you hay in your ears, page? We are speaking to you.”

The bloodriders swaggered over to the red-brick wall in their bow-legged gait, clearly bored and looking for some entertainment as the remaining goods were unloaded from the three ships' holds. Arya was in no mood to give it to them.

“What do you want?”

Aggo smiled, Jhogo laughed, and Rakharo frowned. “Today is great day, page,” he explained. “Great day. Khaleesi lead us north and north-west far away from poison water to ride across plains of home. On Dothraki Sea, you learn true might of our people. When we reach Sunset Kingdoms, we have khalasar worthy of Mother of Dragons.”

He was the burliest of the three men, with arms thick with muscle and a face made for frowning. The stomach beneath his painted vest was not as toned as the others, but Arya knew it made no difference to his strength. If the three were to fight, Rakharo would win. Still, she was not scared of him.

“Keep your khalasar,” Arya said. “There’s no strength in slavery.”

The Dothraki spat. “You are boy, with stink of mother’s milk still on him. What do you know of strength?”

Aggo bowed his head. “The law of a land differs like the grass of its meadows.”

Jhogo knelt down to her height. “Aggo uses old Dothraki saying - it means things are different here than they are in your home. For Dothraki, strong is all there is. Only the weak are put in chains,” he explained. “If you are not strong enough to fight them off, then the chains are well-earned.” He smirked. “There is no need to be afraid. You are strong, Mycah. You will not be enslaved. The khaleesi would not allow it.”

“That’s stupid. Belwas was a slave, is he weak? What about the Unsullied? Is the queen selling Drogon for an army of weak men?”

Jhogo struggled for a reply, and Rakharo stepped in. “Once. They weak once. Boys or babes taken from their home. Taken … and made strong. Made better.”

“They weren’t weak, they were children!” Arya jabbed her finger at Aggo and Jhogo. “You both heard what the Good Master said yesterday. How can you be okay with that?!”

Aggo slung his dragonbone bow over a shoulder. “This is our meadow.”

The Dothraki left with the others, armed and mounted to protect their Queen of Slaves. The sun hung high and hot when the holds were finally empty, and a train of wagons were filled and set to rumble through the dusty streets to be dropped at the sandal-clad feet of the Good Masters of Astapor. A useful prize, though it paled in comparison to the one chained to the queen’s litter. While the other dragons fought and fretted, Drogon merely watched. Arya watched him in turn. Does he know? she wondered. Can he taste his mother’s guilt? Has he caught the scent of her betrayal? She had to look away, lest her anger get the best of her.

Irri and Jhiqui were on dragon-wrangling duty, and were being put through their paces by Rhaegal and Viserion. If either showed any hint of remorse, they hid it well, though Arya thought it unlikely. Both girls were Dothraki, and likely as pleased as all the rest to put the ocean far behind them, slave army be damned. Jhogo and Rakharo were mounted at the litter’s rear, Ser Jorah Mormont at its front. Ahead of them sat the queen atop her Silver, dressed in the same Dothraki style she’d worn when Mycah had met with her aboard Balerion. To her right stood Strong Belwas, too dull or disinterested to share Arya’s anger, and at her left was the gold-eyed girl who Arya had learned was called Missandei.

The scribe had been an afterthought in the negotiations, an extra bonus atop the army of stone-hearted eunuchs. Daenerys had wasted no time in putting the girl back to work, and Missandei now walked proudly at her side, herald to the queen. Arya wanted to scream at her, to wake her up like she wished someone would have done with her, to tell her not to believe the queen’s lies, but it was too late, Arya knew. The next time she’d see the gold-eyed girl they would be enemies, the time for warnings gone and done.

Aggo led the way, bow across his back and quiver at his side. He sat tall and straight in the saddle, and when he brought the goat horn to his lips and blew it, the tattered band began to move. Arya watched, arms folded and face set, as the men and women still loyal to Daenerys Targaryen passed her by, on their way to buy an army. 

Some looked at her as they went, though most didn’t. Belwas gave her a smile and a wave, Missandei a sad look, Jhogo a smirk and Rakharo a scowl. Daenerys and her handmaids did not move their heads, and Ser Jorah looked right past her, like she didn’t even exist. Just the sight of him had Arya bringing her hand to Needle’s pommell. Next time I see you, I’ll be sticking this through your ugly face, ser. After that came the crews without their ships, led by a grave looking Groleo, and then it was all Dothraki. They shuffled past with tired eyes and hard mouths, or rode atop gaunt-looking horses clutching weapons they were either too young or too old to use well. It was a sad sight, though sadder still was the image of Rakharo’s dream coming true and a horde tens of thousands strong descending upon her home. 

All those who’d travelled west from Qarth were accounted for … save one.

Ser Barristan Selmy had always carried himself as a man decades younger than he actually was, but garbed in the roughspun robes of Arstan Whitebeard and with heavy bags beneath his eyes, the old knight finally looked his years. Arya had lost faith in Daenerys when the page’s attempts to convince her to leave the city had failed, but it took the queen’s choice to trade one of her dragons in order to secure the slave army to finally break Ser Barristan. She had caught the old knight staring at them in full flight half-a-dozen times, pale eyes filled with awe. They proved she was a worthy monarch, and she sold one as soon as a good offer was made. It was as if she’d given them the crown atop her head or taken a cleaver to her name and traded the Targaryen part and all its history and rights with a smile upon her face.

She could have landed upon the shores of Westeros as the trueborn rightful heir to the Iron Throne, and men and women across the Seven Kingdoms would have come running to her side. She could have come as the Mother of Dragons, a miracle worker who wields destiny like a dagger. She could have come as Daenerys Targaryen, a worthy queen to bring justice and fairness to a land without any. She could have done something different, and they would still be at her side.

Instead, Arya and Ser Barristan stood and watched as the queen went down a path they could not follow. The old knight had joined her by the red brick wall, taking a seat upon it while Arya leant against the surface. Even this near to the water, the dust was thick across the ground, only worsened by the procession’s slow movement. The front of the column was hidden by a thick red cloud, a veil of mist of which there was no return. She could smell sulfur on the wind, and blood, too.

Arya turned away from the city. “Let’s go.”

She began to turn away but felt a hand on her shoulder. “Wait,” said Ser Barristan. “We … We should see them off, at the least.”

What? “Why?”

“It is the honourable thing to do. We swore to serve Queen Daenerys willingly, it is only right she hear our reasons before we depart.”

Arya grimaced. “We owe her nothing anymore, ser. She lost that right when she gave up a dragon for an army of slaves. Was that the honourable thing to do? Was any of this?” She felt her anger rise. “Where did honour get us, anyway? Thousands of leagues from home, stuck in this stupid slave city, and the girl meant to solve all our problems has thrown in with a pack of beasts in human skin. Men who boast about killing babies and force boys to strangle their own dogs, and what punishment does she give to them? Every drop from Groleo’s holds and one of three living dragons in the world. That’s how she treats injustice. That’s how she treats honour.”

She took a shaky breath. “After Volantis, I … I took my comfort in the idea of her,” she said. “I was sad, and hurt, and scared, and I … I needed to believe there was a better way out there. Maybe I’m just a stupid girl, after all.”

“The fault is mine own,” said the old knight. “I fear my talk of a worthy monarch lifted your expectations to heights unreasonable. A queen is only as good as her counsel, and Daenerys is still so very young. Those about her care little for the plight of the enslaved, and I now suspect that indifference has led Her Grace down a dark path.” Ser Barristan knelt down, gripped both of her shoulders tightly. “You might not think so, but she needs us now more than ever, my lady. Daenerys has it in her to be a great queen, beloved of the smallfolk and respected by her lords, but as long as her ear is held by Jorah Mormont and those Dothraki it will never be.” For the first time ever, Arya saw desperation in the old knight’s pale blue eyes. “Come with me, Arya. Please. Let not the effort put into our journey thus far be in vain.”

She looked down, dug her nails into her palms. Anger boiled up within her, piping hot. “How … can you … forgive her?”

“My lady--”

“She sold them Drogon! She sold them her child!”

He nodded. “A choice that pains me still, and one that lost me any favour I had earned with the girl. Do not think I have forgotten it.”

“Worse, you’ve forgiven it. How?!”

Ser Barristan’s mouth formed a hard line. “She gives Drogon to Ghiscari,” he explained. “They know nothing of what it takes to raise such a beast, and their blood is not of Old Valyria. Their blood … Their blood will tell. Their people have only ever been served suffering from dragons, and I think this trade shall be no different. I now believe Her Grace had planned it thusly, and she suspects Drogon to break free of his bindings and return to her side before long. Why else hand over the largest of the three?”

Watching as he spoke quicker and quicker, eyes wide and shining, Arya was put in mind of some mad old beggar, not the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. She looked at him and felt … pity. “Bad enough to lie to me, but now you’re lying to yourself, ser.” She pushed out of his grip. “You’ve shut your eyes and turned your head from the truth. Come find me here if you manage to open them again.”

“Arya …” He reached out a hand, but dropped it when he saw the look in her eyes. Grey eyes. Wolf’s eyes.

The docks of Astapor were half-empty, and the few ships moored on the wooden piers shimmered in the day’s heat. Arya squinted against the sun, trying to make out the names on each of the hulls, but it was no use. They were written in High Valyrian glyphs, and her knowledge of those was as poor as it was of the spoken word. She had been hoping to see some familiar words or terms to make her search easier, but had forgotten that even the letters here were strangers to her. 

Stupid High Valyrian. Stupid. Stupid! Stupid! It was a rubbish language and she’d hated having to learn it, and knowing she wouldn’t have to speak it ever again if she didn’t want to was just another reason Arya was desperate to leave Essos for good. 

Already she could feel her tunic sticking to her skin with sweat, and Arya tried and failed to bring some relief by fanning the fabric. She brushed her hair from her forehead, and cursed the heat. How is anyone meant to live like this? Arya slicked her fringe back. Another reason to leave this stupid place. She’d give anything to feel a crisp, cold Northern wind, and maybe if it were strong, and if Arya wished for it hard enough, it would carry her all the way home. 

The first two captains she approached didn’t speak a word of common, and the third heard her request through his first mate and laughed when the words were relayed to him. “We sail for Asshai,” said the first mate. “It will be years before we touch the narrow sea, boy, but if you want to earn gold and some hairs on your chest, the captain will gladly take you on.”

“I need to go home,” she told the man, “but thank you.”

He brought a knuckle to his forehead and Arya did the same, leaving with a hand tight on her coin purse. There was something tempting about sailing to the end of the world, knowing for a certainty that Daenerys and her slave army would never bother her again, but Arya couldn’t leave her family, especially not when a threat as bad as that was looming.

By the time the sixth captain had rejected her, Arya’s feet were sore, her body was drenched in sweat, and her stomach was growling at her. She’d skipped breakfast, and her belly was reminding her loudly of that. There was no lack of inns and taverns along the dockside, and Arya went for the least grimy looking one to settle her grumbling stomach. The glyphs on the sign meant nothing to her, but the walls were well-kept stone and the windows mostly clean, though the red-brick dust clung to the edges of each pane, a stain nothing could wash off.

The owner seemed bemused at one as young as her asking for food and drink on their own, though the shine of a gold honour quickly eased her doubts. Arya settled in a corner booth and ignored the queer looks some of the other customers sent her way. A short while later a server slid plate and cup onto the round table she sat at. The smell of it set her stomach rumbling and she wasted no time in tucking in. It was a goat meat soup served with cabbage, leek, onions, garlic, and a kind of hot pepper that made Arya’s mouth feel as though it’d been bathed in dragonflame. She was hot enough as is, so was grateful for the flatbreads and cup of sweetened milk, though once the sting had gone she oddly felt … better, as though forcing spicy food into her body made the day’s sticky heat seem gentler by comparison.

As she finished her drink, Arya glanced about the tavern’s common room. Hushed voices spoke in High Valyrian on a nearby table, and Arya caught a few of the words, though most were lost. She heard: “going soon,” “first to Volantis,” “then to Lys,” and “wants them all sold quickly.”

Volantis gave her hope, and Lys even moreso, and Arya blurted out, “Are you sailing west?”

Slowly, three sets of eyes turned to her. One was big, one was thin, and one was old. “On the morrow,” said the big one. “Why’d you care, boy?”

Calm as still water, she told herself. “I’m looking for passage, and I can pay.”

The big one looked her up and down, his small eyes like two pinpricks on his wide face. Then he snorted. “Piss off. Like we need a scrawny runt like you underfoot for half a bloody year.”

He made to turn his back, but the old one placed a hand on his broad shoulder to stop him. “Forgive my companion,” he said in the common tongue, “the gods blessed him with the strength of an aurochs, and the temperament of one, too.” He waved a hand at the empty seat at their table. “Please, join us.”

Arya pushed down her doubts. Fear cuts deeper than swords. “Thank you,” she said, rising to join the trio. 

As she passed the old man he held out a hand for her to shake. “Tregen Enyr, at your service, young master.”

She shook it. “Mycah.”

Arya slid into the empty seat and heard the rest of the introductions. “This big rude lump is Bracho of Norvos, and the quiet one over there is Stassin. We are men of the Hunter’s Call, a fine galley helmed by Captain Nyessys, bound for Old Volantis.”

“And Lys after that,” said Stassin wistfully, “with the palm trees and pleasure houses.”

Tregen rolled his eyes. “Ignore him,” he told her. “He is Tyroshi, so does all his thinking through the little worm between his legs.”

“A snake, old man, with plenty of bite,” he boasted, earning a snorting laugh from Bracho.

The old man patted her shoulder. “We are not all as crude as Stassin, my friend. Once you are aboard you will see. We are a family, very close knit, yes.”

Arya nodded, thinking of the camaraderie she’d felt aboard the Young Lady all those months ago. She wanted that again, very much. “Is there room for me … and one other?”

Tregen smiled. “The Call is no prince’s pleasure barge, but we have space for those willing to pay.”

“I can,” she insisted. 

He bowed his head. “Just so. Might I ask who this ‘one other’ might be?”

“My grandfather,” she explained. “He’s … running an errand in the city, but he’ll be here before long.” Or so she hoped. The way Arya and Ser Barristan had left things had been strained, but she had to believe the old knight would see sense. “He’ll come.”

The Tyroshi leant forward. “And what brings two Westerosi this far east?”

She chewed her lip. Any mention of Daenerys would bring more questions than she’d like to answer, so she kept things as vague as she could manage. “We were in service to a sellsword, but he died,” said Arya, feeling a pang of guilt at killing Belwas in this false story. “The man who hired us is back in Lys, so we’d part ways there if we are allowed aboard.”

“A sellsword with servants?” asked Stassin. “Must have been some killer to get that sort of treatment. What were you? His butt boy? Or did he prefer the old man’s bony arse, instead?”

Arya felt a flush creep up her cheeks. “I was his page,” she said, struggling to keep the anger from her tone.

“Leave off, Stass, the boy is our guest.” Tregen Enyr rose from his seat. “I think it’s high time you met the captain, my friend.”

Captain Nyessys was short, squat, and hairy. She had a wide brow and a wider jaw, and her nose was broad and broken. A scar ran across her lips and down to her neck, while a smaller one cut across a thick black eyebrow. Curled and wiry hair was hidden beneath a red bandana, and big ears were covered in gold hoops that glimmered in the sun. She was not much taller than Arya, though likely weighed thrice the amount she did.

Tregen had handled the introductions, and Arya was quickly ushered into the captain’s cabin aboard the Hunter’s Call for a more privy meeting. The ship wasn’t near as nice as the Young Lady, or as big as Balerion, but it would get them home safely and swiftly, she told herself. 

The cabin was near as squat as its captain, and there was just enough room for a desk and chairs for their meeting to take place. The walls were lined with nets, chains, and harpoons, and they clinked and clanked as the ship rose and fell. Captain Nyessys took a seat in a high-backed, leather padded chair, Arya slid into the rough wooden one across from it. Tregen and Bracho had followed them in, and stood either side of their captain.

“Mycah,” said the captain. She turned to Tregen. “I knew a Mycah, once. Nasty little shit, he was. He used to sneak fish guts into the girls’ beds, and if any o’ us ever complained he’d leave his soil in our shoes. O’ course, nothing ever came of it, since he were the priest’s son. Even when he stopped bringing guts and started bringing his cock, nothing happened, well, at least until he tried to give it to me. Most priests are celibate by choice, but not Mycah.” Nyessys laughed loud and proud, and the others joined her. “O’ course, the fucker got a cushy life as a priest, and I got a choice: exile or death. Not much of a choice, I’ll grant, but it were the one I got.” She leant forward, green eyes studying Arya where she sat. “So tell me, Mycah, will we get fish guts from you, a cock, or something better?”

Look with your eyes, she heard Syrio tell her. The captain was many things it seemed, but only one thing ruled her life. “I have gold.”

Nysessys smiled, showing her crooked teeth. “Something much, much better, yes. If the other Mycah had been leaving that on our pillows instead, he may still have a cock to piss out of.” She laughed, and slapped her desk with a meaty fist. “Go on then,” she said, “let’s see it.”

“The gold?” she asked.

“No, your little cock. Yes, the bloody gold.”

Arya fumbled in her cloak and brought out the coin purse, letting it fall to the desk with a clunk. Old Tregen whistled, and Bracho let out a low chuckle. “I swear,” said the captain, “I’ll never tire of that sound. This is Grandsire’s coin, I take it? Unless you mean to tell me you were earnin’ this much as a … page, was it?”

“It’s our coin,” Arya insisted. “Worth just as much as anyone else’s.”

Nyessys bowed her head. “Just so.” The captain reached for the pouch, unfastened it, and let the contents fall over her desk in a waterfall of honours. She picked up a piece, flipped it, and bit into it to prove its worth. Satisfied, she let it fall with a clink. “‘Tis a good start, but no man sets foot aboard the Call not willin’ to work. You and yer grandsire won’t be any exception, we all earn our place here.”

She didn’t understand. There was plenty of gold in the coin purse, enough to earn them safe passage to Lys twice over. “That’s what the honours are for, isn’t it?”

The captain put a protective hand over the pile. “The honours get you aboard, but the work keeps you there.”

“But … that’s not a fair deal!”

Nyessys laughed, and waved her hands out wide. “Life ain’t a fear deal, boy! None o’ it is!” She jabbed a thick thumb over to the city. “You been in there, ain’t ya? You seen what they do to them lads to get their soldiers? Y’think any o’ that’s fair? Course it ain’t!  But you think any o’ them greasy bastards give a shit about what’s fair?”

Arya looked down, felt her hands ball into fists. “I care,” she said.

All that got was more laughter. “Then you still got a lot to learn, Mycah. But that’s the kicker, y’see, cos you stick wi’ us lot and you’ll do just that.” The captain leant back in her chair and gestured to the coin. “Consider this an investment in your future. A payment for our generous services. Keep yer ‘ead down, do the work, take yer beatings and yer bruises without whinin’ and you might even make it to Lys like you asked. An’ if you really learn yer lessons, you’ll realise there ain’t nothin’ good waiting for you out there in that fucked up world, an’ you’ll hear the Call and stay right here, oh yes.”

She could hear the sound of her blood rushing through her body, felt the sting of her nails pressing deeper into her palms. Calm as still water, Arya told herself, trying desperately to keep the tears at bay. As she readied her question, Arya felt a deep pit in her stomach growing wider and wider. “What is the Call’s trade, captain?”

Captain Nyessys’s smile spread into a wicked grin, and she reached for a wall decoration, giving the dark iron a loud rattle. “What do you think we trade in, Mycah, docked ‘ere in Astapor?” She brought the chain down onto the desk with a crash. “Slaves, boy. Slaves. What else?”

Hearing the answer, Arya took a shaky, steadying breath, and ran.

The big one was faster than she could have ever imagined. One moment Arya was spinning out of her chair and making for the door, and the next she was on the cabin’s floor, wind driven from her lungs and a mighty paw pressing against her chest. Her ears were ringing, and each breath was a battle of its own. The room seemed to spin around her as she lay there, twisting and dancing, rising and falling.

“Get him up,” growled a voice. The captain. “Give him these.”

Arya felt herself being hauled up and back into her chair, and - as her breath slowly returned - she watched, dazed, as the pair of manacles was fastened at her wrists. No, thought the girl dimly. Oh, no. 

“Best get used to these, runt,” whispered the big one whose name had been knocked out of her head by the fall. 

Her eyelids felt heavy as lead, and it was all she could do to keep them open and on the captain. “An’ just when we were startin’ to get along.” Nyessys shook her head. “Well, that’s what you get fer dealing with liars, boys.”

“M’not a liar,” she muttered. Arya could taste blood in her mouth.

“Oh, yes you are. Y’been lyin’ since the second y’set foot on my ship, boy. Well, that’s just it, ain’t it? Boy. How many times ‘ave you been called that, hmm? An’ not once did you think to correct it.” She waved a hand. “All these men might be too dull to notice, but I know a girl when I see one. I used to be one, after all. Now, some fools’ll say a girl aboard a ship’s bad luck, plenty o’ em ‘ave said as much right to my face, and they were right anorl, it was bad luck … for them.” 

Even through the haze, Arya knew things were very, very bad. She could try to deny it, but what good would that do her? She had to get out of here somehow, find Ser Barristan and run far away from this awful place. “How … How did you …”

“The heat,” answered the captain. “Listen, I’m no stranger to a bit of dress up, but when the weather’s like this, they’re a dead giveaway.” Nyessys waved a finger at Arya’s chest. “You’re a young lass, I’m guessin’ they’ve snuck up on you right quick, ‘ey?”

She blinked and looked down, and felt her heart drop. She had … a chest. When did I get one of those? With the sweltering heat of Astapor, her tunic had been sodden with sweat, and it was obvious to anyone looking that she was a girl. It was all too much, and the stupid little girl began to cry her stupid little tears.

“Aw c’mon lass, it ain’t that bad. It were a good effort, y’know? Y’dont get heat like this over in Westeros, do you? The gods know you don’t up in Ibben. See, I were lucky in that sense, the men of Ib look much like the women of Ib to the eyes of a foreigner, so I never ‘ad much trouble layin’ low … unless it were hot.” Her smile was almost gentle. “Binding’s yer best mate when yer playin’ as the other side. Wrap a bandage across yer chest till yer girls are nice an’ flat, an’ there yer ‘ave it! O’ course, the cat’s out the bag, now, an’ there ain’t no puttin’ her back. 

“Yer a lass, y’see, an’ there’s but one job a lass can ‘ave aboard a ship like ours. Some o’ the lads’d’ve ‘ad you before, some won’t even now, but most’ll want you. An’ a bit o’ advice from someone who’s been in yer boots … don’t fight. Y’got that fire in yer eyes, lass, an’ that’s what’ll get you killed. Some men like a fighter, but most don’t, an’ they’ll beat yer bloody for it. Especially these lot.” The captain rose from her seat. “Y’see, our job’s not easy, an’ it’s not nice. That means the men who do it ain’t nice, neither. Pay yer dues, lass, an’ you’ll come out of it stronger. I did.”

Her head was pounding, and she felt sick. “Don’t do this. Please. You don’t need to.”

Nyessys tutted. “Yer still fightin’, ain’t ya? I told you it weren’t worth it.” She moved over to where Arya was sat, and squatted down. “Life’s a great big cunt, y’see, an’ we all get fucked by it now an’ again. This … This is yer first time, lass, an’ it won’t be yer last. An’ I could stand here an’ tell yer how sorry I am, but truth be told I ain’t. No one were sorry when I got fucked, an’ no one’ll be sorry when you do. ‘Cos that’s the way all o’ this works. Y’can burn yerself out screamin’ an’ cryin’ an’ shoutin’, or y’can keep that flame alive ‘til the day comes when yer strong enough an’ smart enough to pay ‘em all back.”

Arya looked at the captain through her fringe. Fear cuts deeper than swords. “Is that what you did?”

She smiled. “‘Course it was. How’d y’think I got ‘ere? I had me legs spread, aye, I took me bruises an’ scars, I bled, an’ ‘ere I am.”

“So … So you know it’s wrong, but you’re going to make me do it anyway?”

She saw something flash across Captain Nysessys’s green eyes, but it was gone just as quick. “What don’t kill you, lass … An’ besides, there’ll be a lot more sufferin’ if my lads pulled into every port ‘alf mad wi’ lust. There’s a role for everyone aboard the Call … well, I were gonna call yer Mycah, then, but that were just a little lie.” The captain rose again. “Time fer a little bit o’ trust, ‘ey? What’s yer real name, sweetheart?”

“Let me go and I’ll tell you.”

“Haw! She’s feisty, that’s fer sure.” Nyessys turned to the old man. “Tregen? Beat that out o’ her, an’ get ‘er name before yer done. I’d ‘ate for the girl to think we’re an impolite bunch.”

The old man nodded and hauled Arya to her feet. She fought against him, though chained up and dazed it was a feeble effort. “Let go! Let go!”

He ignored her, yanked her by her chain, opened the cabin door, and tossed her out onto the deck. The old man followed her out, grabbed her by her tunic, and said, “Welcome to the crew, lass.” 

He raised a wrinkled hand to hit her, but an ear-splitting screech from within the city stayed his strike. Tregen’s eyes shot up, and they drew tight with worry as more noises emerged. There were shouts and screams and cries, and Arya could see smoke beginning to rise into the sky when she turned her head.

“What the …”

A voice cut him off. “Captain! Captain!” Arya remembered it. Stassin. The Tyroshi. He’d stayed behind to finish his drink. “Gods preserve us, they’re killing everyone!”

“Who is?” asked Tregen, forgetting Arya momentarily.

“The eunuchs!” Stassin cried. “They’ve gone mad!” 

She sat up just as others came out to see what all the noise was about. Bracho of Norvos followed Captain Nyessys out the cabin door, and other members of the crew emerged as well, mean faces twisted with confusion. Stassin stumbled up the plank, burned and bloodied, his dyed hair singed and sweaty. 

“What’s he blabberin’ about?” asked the captain.

“The Unsullied, you mean?” asked Tregen.

Stassin gulped and nodded. “They’re slaughtering their masters!” Arya got her feet beneath her.

“On whose orders?”

It was Nyessys who gave the answer. “The dragon bitch. She was tradin’ for ‘em, weren’t she? Seems to me she got her deal an’ set her new soldiers to work killin’ their old masters.” The captain went to the bow, and her crew followed, all wanting a better look. “It’s the dragon blood, y’see, makes ‘er treacherous. The Astapori woulda known that if they thought about anythin’ but money.”

“You’re wrong,” said a voice from the Call’s plank.

All eyes turned to face her, but Arya Stark was not afraid. The captain grinned. “Ah, she’s a clever lass, then. Tell us how we're wrong, clever lass.”

“Her name is Daenerys Targaryen, and she’s going to be the finest queen the Seven Kingdoms has ever had.”

“Is that so?” She took a step closer. “Well, ain’t that just peachy for ‘er? We’ll make sure to give her our well-wishes before we leave in a minute, ‘ey?”

“You can wish what you please, captain. I’m leaving.”

Another step. “Aye, you are, lass, wi’ us. We’ve a long way to go, an’ this place is goin’ to shit as we speak. You go out there they’ll kill you just as quick, mark my words.”

She smiled. “I’ll take my chances.”

Nyessys was faster than Arya had expected her to be, but she was faster still. The captain leapt forth, arm outstretched, and caught air. Arya heard Nyessys hit the deck with a hard thump, but she never saw it. She had leapt down the plank and was onto the pier when she looked again and saw the captain scrambling to her feet and bellowing at her crew: “CATCH THE BITCH!”

Her boots pounded hollow against the wooden pier, and once she stood on solid ground once more she stole a glance back to see nearly half the crew of the Hunter’s Call were chasing after her. Some had weapons drawn and were waving them high above their heads as they ran, others shot out threats and insults, though most concerning was a Dothraki who shot arrows. One thrummed into the ground next to her, forcing Arya to stumble when she noticed it … just out of the path of the second. She heard the sound of its travel as it whizzed past her ear to clatter against a brick wall.

Calm as still water, she thought, though it was hard to follow right then. Count the gap. One … two … three … four-- WHOOSH! Another arrow raced past her, half a second ahead of where she would’ve been. Her heart was hammering in her chest, though she heard Syrio’s voice within the drumline. Slippery as an eel. On four she spun, and the arrow missed its mark.

“Come back, lassie!” she heard a voice cry. “We’ll only beat you some, them dragons’ll roast you like pork!”

No, she thought, they’re my friends, and they need me.

Arya ran round a corner, and half of Astapor ran back. She crashed into the belly of a tokar-wearing man, bouncing her into the side of a wild-eyed woman with blood on her hands. “Mercy!” she cried. “Mercy! Mercy!” It was a mercy that Arya had managed to keep her feet, though the collisions meant she utterly forgot about the count. 

She went to turn her head back to look when something bit her hard in the ear. She reached her hand up, felt blood there, and then she noticed the man with an arrow in his chest. He was a slaver, his fringed tokar turning a deep red against the pure white fabric where the shaft was buried between his breasts. Arya let out a choked gasp at the sight, saw the mix of shock and fear in his eyes, and let out a shrieking yelp of pain as he crashed down against her ankle. He was much too big to stop, and Arya’s attempts to avoid his fall meant his full weight went right down on her foot.

Blood bubbled from the man’s lips, his last words painted in red. He was atop her, crushing her, and everywhere she looked people died. The sky is on fire, thought Arya. Someone set the clouds alight. It was a deep orange, like the inside of a vast furnace, and all the people below were burning. Up there, shapes moved and danced, dark and beautiful. Arya tried to move, felt a white-hot stab of pain in her ankle, and did all she could not to pass out from the feeling.

Her head was spinning worse than it had in the captain’s cabin, and the scent of blood and piss and soil stung her nostrils. The slaver had shat himself as he died, and the smell was awful. Smoke stung her eyes, or maybe it was tears, and Arya Stark fought for each crushed and ragged breath.

“Where is she?”

“Rezzo probably shot her, damned horse-fucker. Who told him to start loosin’ arrows?”

The voices were nearby, and Arya heard them sharp as knives over the rest of the din. People were pleading and shouting and crying and dying, but only the men of the Call mattered. They were not the only corpses in the street, and the size of the crowd had not slowed. Slavers were fleeing the Unsullied, searching for salvation aboard any vessel they could find.

The sailors paid them no mind, only pushing those who got too close. She saw old Tregen, big Bracho, and a few others she didn’t know by name. 

“Who saw her last?” growled Tregen.

“She was dodgin’ arrers, an’ one hit a big fat one,” said the big Norvosi.

“Like him?” asked the old man, and Arya felt the slaver slowly roll off her, and breath returned to her lungs for however long they still drew it. She heard a low chuckle and knew there was no more time for hiding.

Arya turned over, and saw Tregen kneeling above her. “Hello, lass. You had us worried sick, you know?” He reached a wrinkled hand down to grab at her chains. “Come on, let’s get you to the capt-urkh!”

The ivory dirk slid up smoothly through the old man’s throat, and a wash of warm red blood came with it. It ran down Arya’s wrists like shining worms through dirt, and she felt bile rise at the back of her throat. I killed him, she thought, as the sailor’s body slumped against the red-brick road. I … I did it. I did.

“BITCH!” bellowed Bracho of Norvos, and Arya saw a greataxe come crashing down in the space between her legs. “LITTLE BITCH!” He lifted it again, and Arya rolled out of the way of the strike, though the slaver was not so fortunate. The greataxe smashed into the corpse, leaving a jagged gash across his stained tokar. The gods were on her side just then, and something in the fat man held firm, and the weapon caught for a split second, just enough time for Arya to flee.

That plan lasted for the time it took for her to put weight on her bad ankle. She buckled from the pain of it, and knew two things for true at that moment: Arya couldn’t walk, let alone run, and she was going to die.

Crawling, she looked back to see the big one stalking towards her, greataxe dripping with blood. Above her own shallow breathing, Arya heard the panicked cries of the Astapori. “They are coming!” they screamed. “They are coming!” “Gods preserve us!” and “Mercy!” Mercy above it all.

Tears streaking through the blood, Arya joined them.

“Mercy,” she whispered. “Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy.” She said it with each crawl forwards, with each stab of pain, with each step her death got closer. The buildings were burning, and the ash rose up gently into the sky. Will I join them? she wondered. Will I be free, too?

She felt a hand grab her shoulder and wrench her onto her back. Bracho knocked the dirk from her hand with the shaft of his greataxe and raised his weapon high. Through the smoke and past the tears he was a hazy blur, a dream, a nightmare. That’s all this is, isn’t it? she thought. A nightmare. I’ll wake up in my room in Winterfell any minute, I bet. 

Her dreamed death readied his strike.

Arya lifted her chains, and saw the glint of falling steel.

When she looked again, she was free.

 

When she was little, Gishama dreamed of a life spent helping people.

She had sat at her mother’s side and learned all she could of what gifts the gods have given man to heal and mend and fix the injuries and ailments life conjured up. When she turned twelve, she left her home behind to begin her training with the Order of the White-Green Flower, once there studied hard and worked harder still to grow her way from lowly novice to the head of her order, overseeing the health and recovery of half the city of Astapor.

Gishama knew how to stitch a wound, mend a broken leg, heal a stubborn cough or a crab in the belly, could brew poultices to clear away rot or soothe an aching burn, but she knew nothing of what it took to treat with a queen.

The most prominent person she’d met with was the old head of House Kopaar, the patron family of their order. Gishama had not even shared a word with him, just a stiff bow before she displayed her progress and talents to prove his coin was not ill-spent. She bowed again before leaving with her tutor, and that was it. Now old herself, Gishama was content with that to be her closest brush with authority, and any further attempts once she became Head Healer were knocked away. She was no diplomat, no politician. Her place was with her patients. Her place was with those who needed her.

But when a queen called, you answered.

She is young enough to be my granddaughter, the healer thought, yet I’m the one fretting like a girl. Gishama had to laugh at that. She had always had a good sense of humour, it was the only shield afforded to those in her role. It was a hard job, and if you did not laugh you were like to weep instead, and once the tears began it was hard to make them stop.

So Gishama laughed. She laughed at her fears over meeting a girl of five-and-ten, laughed at the three miracles that soared the skies above her, laughed at her home and her people being freed from their chains. None of it felt real.

When she was little, Gishama dreamed of a life of freedom.

She would watch the pleasure barges float down the Worm, wondering what a life free from all struggle would be like. She would cast her eyes to the hills beyond the city’s crumbling walls, or out to the fishing skiffs on the Skahazadhan, and imagine a life spent exploring the great wide world. With the innocence and naivety of youth, Gishama had believed such a thing was possible. It was her mother who had broken the spell.

 “We are slaves, Gisha,” she had whispered, soft as summer grass. “Our lives belong to the master.” 

Even after all these years, Gishama could still recall the smell of her mother’s hair when she’d buried her face in it to weep. She held her through the sobs and wails, held her as her dreams of a life beyond servitude crumbled behind her eyes. The healer smiled at the memory. At the time, it felt as though her little world were ending, but Gishama now knew every child born into bondage went through such a revelation. Most perhaps not quite at her ear-splitting level, but no man walks through life in chains without feeling the chafe of iron eventually.

She had taken the truth poorly, spending her time hiding beneath the covers of their bunk and barely helping her mother tend to the store. What had once been so promising suddenly felt empty, and even the small pleasures afforded to a slave girl no longer held appeal. The children who called by their shop once the work was done came less and less, trips into the market or along the banks of the Worm with her mother became a chore, life itself felt … pointless. 

All of that changed when the dying man arrived.

He was a slave like them, carried in by his brother and a friend. All three men were covered in blood, though the dying man was the only one with a wound that was fatal. In their store, they sold herbs, spices, tisanes, and tinctures. Things to mask an odour or soothe an ache behind the eyes, not save a man on the brink of death. It made no sense for them to be there, or so she’d thought.

“Gods preserve,” her mother had murmured when the men entered. Then, just as quick, she was clearing the contents of her work table and closing the store’s shutters. “Put him on there,” she said, waving to the table as she slid a bolt on the back door. “Did anyone see you?”

“No-one,” said the brother, sliding the dying man’s arm off his shoulder.

Her mother did the same with the front door, turned, and studied the three men. “I do not know your faces, how did you learn of this store?”

The friend spoke as they lay the dying man onto the table with a groan. “You healed my sister Kandessa last year. That dog near ripped her leg to shreds, but you mended the tears, stopped the bleeding, and she’s up and walking as we speak. Please, do the same with Mezlak and I will be forever in your debt.”

“We both will,” echoed his brother.

Their arrival had woken Gishama from her slumber, and she’d crept into the storefront to see what the commotion was. Peeping through a crack in the doorway, Gishama saw her mother rub at her eyes, and sigh. “What happened to him?”

“We were drinking after work,” he explained. “We don’t normally, but it was a long day, and Mez wanted it. We went to the Moth’s Lamp as a treat, and Mez found this girl. He’s always been a charming bastard, and the two of them were soon chatting like old friends. Well, it turns out the girl was niece to one of the Good Masters, much too fancy for the Lamp, let alone flirting with a slave there. No-one was to know, but the girl had already caught the eye of a different master, and Mez has never learned to keep his mouth shut, so of course there’s crossed words, and we’re asked to leave. But this master was drunk and mean and short, and he called Mez over and stuck a dagger in his gut. We managed to chase him and his thugs off but not before Mez lost a lot of blood.

“We’d have gone to one of the orders, but there’d have been questions about where he got the wound and who holds our keys. If the master learns of this, a gut wound’ll be the least of his worries. Then Ezdas mentioned your store, and we thought-”

“It is not my store,” her mother said sternly, “and if word of this gets out …”

“It won’t,” insisted the brother. 

The words hung in the air, her mother sighed again. “Let’s get to work.”

And so it was in that moment, as Gishama’s quiet, gentle mother transformed into an expert surgeon healer to save the life of a man she did not know and to whom she owed nothing and risked so very much, that the healer was born, and Gishama’s life had meaning once again.

She was never as brave as her mother, though that did not mean certain injuries did not make it onto the records from time to time. It was her little slice of rebellion, enough to settle her shade once all was said and done, and the most she had expected to see in her life. 

Oh, how wrong she was.

Washing herself above a basin of cool water, Gishama shook her head. You are getting old, Gisha. Your mind is fogged by memories. Yet she could not help it. So much had changed, it was hard not to reflect on how things once were. She splashed the water against her face. The queen does not want old stories from you, Gishama told herself. She wants … She wants … Looking at the rippling reflection in the basin, no answer came. 

No closer to a solution, she washed, dried, dressed, and broke her fast. Her mornings were quiet, and calm, much in contrast to the rest of the day. She had always risen early, even as a child, and old age meant sleep came less insistently. She was up before the sun most days, and greeted it’s dawning like an old friend. Today was no different, though her usual restful sleep was plagued by dreams of dragons and flame.

Once she was in the sick bay, though, there was no room for daydreams. 

The work was known, familiar, and plenty. Gishama leapt into it like featherdown bedding. The fighting had left the infirmary packed to the rafters, and the cool red-brick building buzzed with chattering voices. Her people were free to speak their minds at long last, and, injured or not, they were determined to do so. She listened for a time, letting the sound wash over her, until she felt a touch at her elbow.

Arasha, she knew, before the girl had even spoken. “Madam? What are you doing here? You ought to be resting before your meeting with Her Magnificence.” 

“Work will soothe me more than a few extra winks, Arasha.” The girl was a fine healer, though she fretted over Gishama like she was already a bent-backed old crone. True, she was more hands-on than was expected of a Head Healer, but Gishama had never compromised anything for her patients, and a badge of office weighed precious little against a saved life.

The girl frowned. “So long as you give enough time to get changed and refreshed. I had your good robes washed and freshly dyed for the meeting, shall I have them laid out for you, madam?”

She patted Arasha on the arm. “You worry too much. If you are not careful, those frown lines will set and you’ll look as wrinkled as I do.” Gishama began to walk away, the girl following close by. “These robes will serve me just fine,” she said. “The queen will see me as I am, not as I wish to be. Do I wear bright, crisp robes to visit my patients? Of course not. If the girl is as wise as they say, she will see the message beneath it, and the sense I hope it makes.”

The healer left her novice with a gentle smile, and began her day’s work. 

Gishama did her rounds, taking comfort in the familiarity, the certainty of uncertainty. There were dressings to be changed, stomachs to be filled, beds to be stripped and made, aches to be eased, complaints to be heard, and bedpans to be emptied. She knew there were those in her order who thought such menial tasks were below the Head Healer’s purported station, but Gishama knew no other way of working. She had no lust for power, no grasping ambition for title or status, just a dream she’d dreamt all those years ago, to help those who needed it.

The boy with the broken ankle was one such, loathe as he seemed to take her help.

Mycah, he was called, a Westerosi boy who arrived in the city with the queen’s party, and took a wound during the uprising. He’d been carried into the infirmary by a great bald man with a gaunt-looking grandfather at his side. Both men were also in the employ of Queen Daenerys, and the big one claimed to have found the boy amidst the bloody chaos. She chided them for letting one so young out of their sight in times as fraught as these, and set about finding Mycah a bed before splinting the boy’s foot. 

His grey eyes had been clouded, and his long face dazed when he first arrived, though after a few days with them he was anxious to leave and sullen at being told he couldn’t just yet. The splint was just a temporary measure, and would never last the months it would take for the bone to heal properly, so the boy needed a full cast put on. That meant more waiting, and the knowledge that any and all physical activity was off the table whilst it was on. This was, predictably, received poorly, and Gishama smiled and nodded reassuringly as the lad told her of his duties as a loyal page in service to the queen.

“Well,” she said, “those duties will have to be put on hold.” The healer knew the common tongue decently well, her tutor as a girl had been a healer from the Sunset Kingdoms who had been captured and enslaved. He spoke little of his home, though shared his language willingly. At that age, she had been ravenous for knowledge, and leapt at the chance to learn more about the strange pale man who knew so much of the healing arts. She still missed him sometimes.

“But … I can’t let her down again,” said Mycah. “I can’t.”

“Again?” she asked. A healer must be curious, she knew, and Gishama had that trait in abundance.

He gestured towards his ankle. “Again! How am I meant to protect Her Grace with a stupid broken ankle?!”

The healer laughed. “I’m certain the queen does not blame this on you.”

The boy shook his head. “You don’t know her. She’s so … perfect, and … and powerful. To her, I probably just look like some little stupid who can’t do anything right.”

Gishama tilted her head, intrigued by his outburst. Most boys his age did not concern themselves with how anyone else saw them. “Is that how she makes you feel?”

Mycah chewed his lip. “Not on purpose. It’s just … how it is, I guess. Her words are gentle, but she looks at me with those amethyst eyes and I just … crumble.”

She nodded. “It sounds as though you are dancing with your own shadow.”

He frowned. “I’m what?”

“An old Ghiscari saying,” she said. “What you fear, it is only in your mind, Mycah. Once you are out of here, ask her yourself.” Gishama folded one leg over another. “I confess I do not know the girl, but from what I have heard she does not strike me as one to spurn loyalty with a withering glance. Perhaps I am wrong; I shall find out for certain when we meet today.”

That caught his notice, as she’d hoped it might. “When? Where?”

“This afternoon. In the pyramid that once belonged to the House of Nakloz, I believe.”

Mycah looked down, clearly thinking. “Can you … tell her something from me?”

The healer smirked. These Westerosi are a strange lot. “I suppose so, but only if you stay still whilst I put your cast on.”

The time of her meeting crept cruelly upon her like a vagrant at dusk, and she came dangerously close to a jog for fear of being late on her way to the pyramid. Such an unseemly act had thankfully not been necessary, and she was escorted into the red brick building by a member of the Unsullied. 

Gishama had set foot within this pyramid only once before, to tend to the ailing father of the now deceased Kraznys, Qaznys. A great man once, the Good Master had been brought low by a sickness of the bowels, and the House of Nakloz had sent for the finest healers in Astapor to save the head of their house. Only once the well of freedmen healers had been exhausted did they send for Gishama. If they’d gone to her first, she might have saved him, but by the time she arrived at his bedside, Qaznys mo Nakloz was at death’s door, and there was nothing she could do to shut it. That truth did little to quiet his son’s rage, nor did it make the lashes Gishama bore sting any less. As she climbed the steps of the pyramid, the healer pictured Kraznys mo Nakloz aflame, eyeballs bursting like overripe fruits. 

Daenerys Targaryen was waiting for her, seated on a polished and cushioned chair much too large for her. These are the master’s chambers, she dimly recalled. That meant the seat had once belonged to Kraznys, a man of immense girth, especially when compared to the young woman now sat in his place. Unsullied guarded the door, and two more stood at the corners of the room. Behind the queen stood the two men who’d brought little Mycah to her door a few days past, as well as an ugly-looking Westerosi with a black bear sewn over his breast. They were an eclectic group, and yet Gishama owed them much. They had no reason to fight for her people’s emancipation, but they had, freeing Astapor from the chains it had been shackled under for as long as it had existed. It was the main reason she’d answered the summons, and Gishama had vowed to herself that whatever the young queen asked of her she would do all she could to see it done.

The healer knew her courtesies, and she knelt on her good knee before the queen. “Your Magnificence,” she said, “I am honoured to be in your presence.”

The girl smiled. “Rise, Madam Gishama, and know the honour is mine alone. Your mastery of the healing arts is well known, Astapor is lucky to have you in her service.”

Gishama rose, more stiffly than she’d have liked to, and clasped her hands together. “Your words flatter me, for I am a simple healer, nothing more.”

“I would not have you any other way. Your people speak of hands blessed by the gods, of a knowing beyond the means of a girl born into bondage, and a heart large enough to care for every soul that stepped through her door. They speak of a well of kindness without a bottom, of the strength of a bull and the gentle nature of a summer breeze, of a woman who wants to help those who need it. I am told you have even tended to one of my own, and for that we are all in your debt. How fares Mycah, pray? He is dear to us all.” 

“Well,” she answered. “His cast is in place, and he should be back in your company by tomorrow.” She spread her hands. “I fear keeping it on him shall be a trial, Your Radiance. The boy was aghast at the thought of missing a few months of training with his grandsire.”

The queen’s smile widened. “He is a fierce lad … and loyal, too. He spoke out against the Good Masters louder than anyone in my party, and his bravery was an inspiration when I made the choice to free Astapor.” 

“He has a good spirit, sire, I’m certain those words would mean the world to him. As it happens, he asked me to pass on some words of his own to yourself. He wished for you to know that his only wish is to serve you and keep you safe.”

The ugly one snorted. “Fat chance of that with a broken ankle.”

Queen Daenerys ignored him. “I shall remember that, madam, and, after your aid, no doubt my page speaks highly of you, as well. All these people singing your praises … tell me, are they wrong?”

A tongue as silver as her hair, she thought, though Gishama was no stranger to flattery, and she wondered where it was leading. “Give me their names, Your Magnificence, and I shall thank them, and tell them to use their words more wisely. Honeyed words are sweet, though they will not fill a stomach.”

Queen Daenerys tilted her head. “These unwise words are why you stand before me now, madam. I am surprised to see you turn your back to them.”

“I suppose that depends on why exactly I stand here, Your Magnificence.”

That brought a smile to her lips. “Forgive me for leaving you in suspense, but a queen must have some mystery … and some secrets, as well. When I declared my war on the slave trade here in Astapor, I took responsibility for the city and the people that call it home. It is not something I take lightly, nor do I intend to leave it to fall back into the hands of evil men once more.”

“You are leaving us?” Gishama had not expected the queen to stay forever, but even still it seemed a sudden departure.

She nodded. “I have no choice. Astapor and its people will never be safe so long as Yunkai and Meereen still bind their own in chains. If I were to head west to reclaim my throne it would be no time at all before forces would come down from the north and undo all the good we have achieved here.”

Gishama was no general, but it did not take a vast knowledge of the battlefield to see the girl spoke the truth. She could picture the Yunkai’i in her mind racing south, shackles in hand and snarling grins on their faces. It turned her stomach. To gain freedom at last only to have it snatched from us so quickly … It is too cruel to even imagine.

“A score of Unsullied would do much to preserve that good,” she said politely. “Our sister cities know to fear an assault on Astapor so long as their spiked caps stand atop her walls.” The process that made them was monstrous, but even Gishama knew there was no force as capable in a city’s defence as the Unsullied. Yet the price of that quality was steeper than any mountain, and its trail was paved in blood.

The queen shook her head, making the bells in her braid clink lightly. “I have need of every Unsullied, even those yet to finish their training, but that does not mean Astapor shall be left defenseless. I have set my men to form a new guard of freedmen charged with the city’s protection, they shall be as loyal as any Unsullied, and twice as fierce for they will take up shield and spear willingly.”

Gishama smiled tightly. A poor shield, she thought. Any boy with a hint of size and skill were made into Unsullied, those left are the old, the young, or the simple. “We shall be honoured to have them, Your Radiance. Shall the Unsullied oversee their training?”

“The Unsullied leave with us,” growled the hairy knight. “We need them all.”

Queen Daenerys placed a hand on his arm. “Peace, ser. Madam Gishama fears for her people, nothing more. Still, my bear speaks truly. I have plans for the Unsullied … plans that take us north. You fear an assault from Yunkai, madam, but it is the Yunkai’i who should be afraid. Any man who wields the lash should be afraid. Slaver’s Bay should be afraid.” The room seemed to darken, and a fire was lit behind the queen’s violet eyes. “My Unsullied shall not know rest until every slave in Yunkai and Meereen is freed. That is my vow.”

The healer felt the hairs on her arms stand up. She speaks, and the world itself shakes. “Then may the gods march with you, Your Radiance, for it will be no simple task. Yunkai’s walls are thick and tall, and Meereen’s taller and thicker still.”

She smiled. “Our cause is just, and so we shall find a way, madam.”

Gishama nodded. “I shall pray for your success,” she said, knowing how much now rested upon it. “I take it Her Magnificence did not summon me here to relay war strategies. Is there a patient you would like me to tend to?”

The queen folded her hands in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “Astapor.”

She was lost. “Your Radiance?”

“I will leave your city soon, Madam Gishama, and there must be someone here to rule it. The road ahead is far from certain, and there will be strife and struggle along the way. We have changed the very fabric of Astapor, cut out the cancer, and now is the time to staunch its wound.”

The healer shifted her feet. “An apt metaphor, Your Radiance, but healing a man and leading him are not the same.” Gishama bowed. “I am content to leave the latter to those more capable of it.”

“And so the matter falls into your lap once more, madam. I intend for a council to rule Astapor once I am gone. A scholar, a priest, and a healer. Zarmak of the Robed Seekers and Head Priest Izhmel have already agreed to hold seats, and it is my wish that you hold the third.”

She did not know what to say. “I … I am no ruler, Your Magnificence. The men you speak of are wise and just, there is little I can offer in comparison. I am best served in the healing house, at my patients’ sides.”

Queen Daenerys tilted her head. “Most in your place would leap at such an offer, yet you do not. That is interesting to me.” She waved a delicate hand. “Those selected are wise and just, as you say, but Zarmak has spent his life in a library, and Izhmel is fire and fury, great in a sermon, but he needs a tempering hand at the council table. With you alongside them, I believe Astapor shall prosper more than it ever did under the yoke of bondage. And if you miss the busy life of a healer then I have no qualms about you still working at your healing house, just as long as governance takes precedence. Will that suffice, or do you persist in your refusal?”

She does not understand … “It would be a simple thing to say yes, Your Radiance, and a part of me is sorely tempted. Yet I resist the simple choice because I am not worthy of it. Astapor is my home. It’s people are my life. They should have a leader worthy of them.”

The queen chuckled lightly. “I am trying, but she is being terribly stubborn about it.”

Gishama shook her head. “There are others … better … wiser …”

“Perhaps,” she allowed, “but I have yet to find them. I have searched every corner of Astapor, and one name came up above all others. You say you are not a ruler; well, the Good Masters all thought themselves rulers - all of them Grazdhan the Great come again - and it was that arrogance that betrayed them in the end. Grazdhan the Great would never be bested by a foolish little girl, so the thought did not even cross their minds until it was too late. They saw only their own brilliance, blind to the fire that was burning behind their people’s eyes.” The queen leant forward. “A ruler … a leader … must serve their people, and I ask you, Madam Gishama, who has served the people of Astapor as well as you?”

Later, as Gishama washed and dressed for the celebration feast following the queen’s announcement, she imagined a day when the children of Astapor could dream of whatever life they wanted, knowing nothing stood in their way but themselves. Turning dream to fact was the trade of gods, but that was precisely what the little queen had done. So what, pray, does that make her? 

Beautiful, thought Mycah. She is beautiful. From across the feasting hall he watched, silent, as Queen Daenerys danced with her people. The tune was Dothraki, and only got played after great victories. It was an upbeat tune, loud and raucous, just as he’d come to expect from the horselords. A set of drums taller than him and near as wide as Belwas were set up against a wall, and each time the drummer pounded against them it sent rumblings across the entire room. Above the heavy beat were a score of horse-head fiddles, the players sliding stretched hair bows across the strings at a hectic pace, feet tapping to the rhythm. The tune slid this way and that, and the crowd of dancers followed suit, twirling and dipping across the stone brick floor. 

Atop them all was the horn, steady and deep, and the singer. He was a shrivelled old thing, grey and wrinkled, but the noise that rose from his throat was the heavy, rumbling roar of some great leviathan. Mycah had never heard singing like it, but it shook his bones and rattled his heart like nothing else. It was the type of song one could not help but dance to, and Mycah saw those away from the dancing floor tapping a foot or nodding a head, but not him. His left foot was bound in a thick cast, but even without his injury Mycah was in no mood to dance. They celebrate a victory I had no part in, he knew. What right do I have to share in their joy?

For the rest of those in attendance, the day of the uprising was one that would live long in the memory. For Mycah, it was one he’d gladly forget.

He had failed in his duties as a page, let his obedience and discipline slip, and it was only by the grace and kindness of Queen Daenerys that he was still here. She would have been well within her rights to banish him for his disloyalty, and Mycah would have taken the news with a grim acceptance. Instead, he had been welcomed back warmly, and had been offered a place with the rest of the queen’s party for the night’s festivities. He refused, naturally, and vowed to stand guard instead, crippled though he was. As he watched Queen Daenerys spin smiling from the arms of one bloodrider to the next, Mycah swore he would break every last bone in his body before he let her come to harm.

Of all the lessons he had learned on the day of the uprising, one stood above the rest: they did not matter. Whether it was the girl or the page, it made no difference. They’d both been flat against the cobbles, beaten and broken, their end looming over them. They’d both gotten tricked and captured, lost the gold Whitebeard trusted them with, almost ended up enslaved on a ship bound for Lys. They both could have died, and nothing would have changed. 

Queen Daenerys would still have got her Unsullied, would still have betrayed and killed the Good Masters, would still have called out dracarys, and Drogon would still have let burst his gout of black flame. The world would still have changed forevermore, if they had not lived.

There was a freedom that came with the knowledge, he had come to realise. It was a freedom of consequence, a freedom of doubt. It meant there would be no hesitation when it came to the queen’s protection. It meant Mycah would be a better page. The message he asked Madam Gishama to relay rang as true as any he now held to. He wanted only to serve the queen and keep her safe. Nothing else.

It made his broken ankle hurt that much more.

During the days he was stuck in his cot recovering, he had decided it had been a punishment from the gods for his disobedience. Had Mycah gone with the rest of the party to the Plaza of Punishment, he would almost certainly be unscathed. The knowledge of its earning angered him. Bad enough to wound yourself from your own foolish mistake, but to not even take it in protection of your queen … it shamed him beyond words.

A cheer rose up around the room as the song and dance came to a close. Mycah looked up, watched Queen Daenerys returning to her seat, and froze when her eyes met his. The look within them struck harder than any sword blow. She smiled at him, and he ran away. 

Mycah hobbled through the archway and stopped by the wall, sliding down it, crutch forgotten. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. Forgive me,” he pleaded. “Forgive me.” The girl had been too angry and sad to trust their queen, and the page had been too weak to stop her. Neither of them were worthy of her faith, and the wait before the news of his dismissal was chafing him raw. The thought of living his life forever in the shadow of his failure, of never feeling the warmth of her sun again … it was a weight Mycah knew he could not bear. Every time she looked at him, all he could ever see there was disappointment. 

Another song rose up from the feasting hall, and Mycah flinched at the sound. He reached for his crutch and began to struggle to his feet. 

“Your foot needs rest, boy.”

Mycah looked up at the healer, and continued his struggle. “You’re not caring for me anymore, remember? You let me go.”

Madam Gishama crossed her arms. “I let you go under the trust that you would follow my instructions. Standing for as long as you were in there will only prolong your recovery. I thought you wanted to heal as quickly as possible so you could continue your training?”

He slid the crutch up. “I do, but Her Grace needs protecting! I can’t just lay around while she’s vulnerable.”

“Gods preserve,” the healer sighed, and took his crutch to slide it under his arm. “There. You are not some tiger in the jungle to face life on your own. You are a boy with a broken ankle, Mycah. When people want to help you, it is okay to let them. Her Grace has just gained the services of an army eight-thousand strong,” the madam explained, “she has never been as safe as she is right now. She has three dragons, a Westerosi knight, a famed pit fighter, and a trio of Dothraki sworn to give their lives for hers in a heartbeat. Queen Daenerys does not need you to protect her, especially not in the state you’re in right now.”

She does … She has to, elsewise … “There … There has to be something I can do.”

Gishama looked down at the boy, scrawny little thing that he was, and smiled. “Aye, there is. You can rest, heal, and return to her side stronger than before. You might think it a curse, but that cast is an opportunity, Mycah. There is more to life than fighting, do you know? Just as a person’s quality does not start and end on the edge of a blade. Spend these months growing stronger, wiser, and smarter. See the world through different eyes and there is no limit to what you can learn. Can you do that?”

Through his fringe, Mycah saw the shine of her eyes. Every hurt is a lesson. Even one as large as this. “I think so.”

“Good.” The healer paused for a moment. “She asked after you when we spoke, and smiled when I told her of your quick progress. I saw no disappointment in her, Mycah, only relief, and care. Your master will say as much.”

“The masters were all slain, Madam Gishama. I am only an old squire.”

The healer studied him. “Those masters were, yes, but I speak of the master of a trade, not a man. You mastered yourself, honed your skill, and now the boy sits at your knee and learns all you have learned. A true master, who earned the title with dedication. Astapor shall know no other, so long as I live.”

Whitebeard bowed his head. “Quite right. Her Grace has chosen well, I think.”

She returned the gesture. “Queen Daenerys is a fine judge of character, I suspect, to have you both in her company.” Gishama moved to the old squire’s side and whispered so Mycah could not hear. “Your boy has spirit, but he is confused, and scared. Speak to him, lest you lose him for good. Her Radiance needs good men about her to face what’s soon to come.” Gishama left them, robes swirling in her wake.

When Arstan leant against the wall alongside Mycah, his face was strained. He’d had the account of what occurred sitting by the child’s sick bed, and ample time to consider it as he sat listening to her quiet, slumbering breaths. It shook him badly how close they’d been to catastrophe, and Selmy had been so sick with worry he’d hardly celebrated the queen’s triumph at all. The gods were merciful, and Arya had escaped with a few cuts and scrapes and a broken ankle that would heal in a few moons. Given she’d run headfirst into a city midway through a bloody revolution with a crew of violent slavers chasing her, the girl had gotten off lightly. She’d lost their emergency gold, aye, but it was a small price to pay, particularly given its need had been burnt away with so much else when Queen Daenerys uttered that single word.

Dracarys. Dragonfire.

It had taken him much too long to realise what was happening, and he’d cursed his poor instincts, knowing if they’d faced real foes that day, he’d be as dead as the Good Masters were. Still, Ser Barristan defied any man not to stop and stare when three dragons rained fire from the sky. The queen had kept her true intentions a secret from all but her closest circle, and Selmy had found out along with the rest that there would be no peace with slave owners, only fire and blood. The trade had been a ruse, and as soon as Daenerys had the Unsullied under her command she sent dragon and eunuch alike off to spill the blood of every slaver in the city. It was a bloody and brutal thing, and his thoughts had turned to Arya all alone and utterly unaware. Selmy had first thought the girl safe at the city’s harbour, though was proved sorely mistaken when swathes of slavers made for the ships docked there as a means of escape. 

Belwas had been the one who found her, and it was his thick arms that carried her across the city to the healing house of the Order of the White-Green Flower. Ser Barristan followed at his side, face white with fear, heart pounding in his chest. He did not sleep a wink that night, and spent his time deep in prayer at the foot of her bed, voice lower than a whisper so as not to disturb the girl’s rest. Belwas had wanted to stay, too, but Selmy misliked leaving Her Grace bereft of both of their protection, and so the big pit fighter had left them, though not before growling out an apology for leaving Mycah on his own.

He’d only left at the insistence of Madam Gishama, and Ser Barristan had been forced to fret over the girl from afar, instead. When she’d come hobbling through the doors of the pyramid Her Grace had taken residence in, Selmy had been overjoyed, and had felt the weight lift from his shoulders, believing things were at long last going to be okay. Looking down at the girl’s sullen, sunken face, clearly Ser Barristan had been wrong.

“Did the queen really ask about me?”

“She did. Most every day, not just this morning. She would have visited, had she the time, but there has been precious little of that to go around of late.” Selmy could not keep the grin from his face. “I wish you could have seen her that day. Riding atop her silver, calling out orders to the Unsullied, she was every inch the queen we wished for her to be. I looked into her eyes, and I saw Rhaegar looking back at me.”

Arya chewed her lip. “I wish she trusted us enough to tell us beforehand.”

“As do I, yet she did not. It is now our job to ensure that next time she does.”

“Ser … I don’t think I can.”

“I--”

“It was a test, can’t you see that? She asked me to prove I was loyal and I … I failed. There won’t be a next time, ser. Why would there be? What queen wants a protector they can’t trust? What queen wants a stupid angry girl or a weak little page? Whatever I try to be, it isn’t enough, so even if you’re right and I get a second chance, I’ll just mess it up again.”

Ser Barristan ran a hand through his beard. “And would this mess be made by Arya or Mycah, pray?” Her eyes went wide and he held up a hand. “I have not been utterly blind to your changes, child. Your dedication to your disguise has been admirable, but I trust you know it cannot last forever. One day we will need to reveal ourselves to Queen Daenerys, and that day is coming sooner than you may like.” He saw the fear in her eyes, and tried his best to ease it. “We are a world away from the Lannisters, and now that we are in the queen’s company, Illyrio Mopatis will not risk your kidnap lest it turn Her Grace against him. Our enemies dwindle in the distance, Arya, so tell me why you’re still afraid?”

Slowly, like some skittish animal emerging from its den, Arya Stark came out before him. He could not quite explain it, but her demeanour had shifted, and the ruse was gone entirely. She may never be a knight, but the girl is a born mummer. Still, her grey eyes were heavy with grief.

“I’m not afraid, it’s just … easier to be Mycah. It’s easier not to be who I am. I know it’s not real, I know it can’t last, I just … I like it. People treat me differently when I’m a boy; they don’t care that I carry a weapon or that I train with you and Belwas, or that I cut my hair short and don’t wear a dress. It’s like I’m more me when I’m him,” she said, “if that makes any sense.

“When I’m Mycah, I’m more who I want to be, more who you’d want as a page, more who the queen would want serving her. If I go and tell Her Grace who I really am, she’d stick me in a gown and make me a lady-in-waiting, and I’d be no use to anyone. When I’m Mycah, I’m worth something, ser. I make a difference. When I’m her, all I make is trouble.

“How many times have I run away from you? How many times have I made you sick with worry? You promised to keep me safe, but all I’ve done is put myself in more danger. On the day of the uprising, I really thought I was … I thought I was going to die.” Tears had begun to fall, and she rubbed at them angrily with the base of her palm. “Even these stupid tears … A page doesn’t cry. He doesn’t. That’s all she does, though, she makes a mess and then cries about it afterwards. I want to fix things, not make them worse! I want to help people, not hurt them! I want to keep everyone safe … but Arya Stark’s never been able to do that, so that’s why I have to be someone else. That’s why I have to be Mycah.

“The real Mycah … I couldn’t protect him like I needed to. I ran and cried and hid, and they killed him. He took the blame, because …” Arya’s voice was thick with emotion, her little shoulders were shaking as her tears fell, “because …”

“He was just a butcher’s boy,” Ser Barristan finished softly.

Wet, red eyes snapped up to stare at him. “How did you …”

“I was there, child.” It had taken the girl’s own account to jog his memory, and he had put the name to the poor boy. “The king’s brother and I rode north as the honour guard for your party that day. I met your sister, Sansa, but not yourself. She had her wolf with her.”

“Lady,” whispered Arya. “They killed her, too.”

Selmy gave a grim nod. “The queen’s work.”

“Nymeria was the one who bit Joffrey,” said Arya, recalling the events like some distant dream. “Me and Jory had to throw rocks at her till she ran away. I thought I did the right thing, but they just killed Lady instead.” She shook her head. “Another mess made by me.”

“I didn’t see you until Robert held judgment in Darry’s hall. You’d been gone for days, with half the royal party out looking for you. They found you and stuck you in front of the king, the queen, and the crown prince, and do you know what thought crossed my mind? That is the bravest, boldest girl I have ever seen. Nothing about her foolishness, nothing about the mess she’s made, nothing about any problems she caused … nothing but admiration. You faced down the royal family of Westeros, and held true to your truth, Arya, and if there’d been a shred of honour or decency in that court you would have had your justice, and your friend would yet live.

“It shames me to know I spent so many years protecting such a sorry lot, and I thank the Seven Above that Daenerys is not like them.” He let out a sigh. “I am old, my lady, too old, mayhaps, for all this adventure. In my life I have made more mistakes than I can count, and as the years have gone by, the failures have outweighed the successes, but finding you at the Sept … saving you … I’m as proud of that as anything I’ve ever done. And I saved you, Arya, not Mycah, not the page, not the boy. You. Arya of House Stark, who I’ve chased through the streets of King’s Landing, and a magister’s manse in Pentos, and across the stone cobbles of Old Volantis; who has trained harder and more passionately than any highborn boy I’ve taken to squire; who I’ve feared over more than any king, and raged about more than any foe. That is who I saved, and that is who I want by my side when we make shore in Westeros.

“Whatever happens from here, whether you’re a page or a princess or something entirely different, I will be well content so long as you are you. That is all I’ve ever needed, child, I promise.”

 

Unlike her, the little scribe Missandei was good at cyvasse.

“Death in four, Mycah.”

Arya could play the game well enough, and always enjoyed playing right up until the moment the gold-eyed girl won.

“How?”

The set they played with had been a gift for Queen Daenerys from a group of Astapori artisans, and the pieces were carved beautifully from onyx and ivory.

“You moved your dragon beyond the mountain, and your elephants are too far away.”

With her ankle broken, Arya had been stuck in the queen’s wheelhouse for their journey north to Yunkai, and games of cyvasse had been one of the best ways she’d found to pass the time.

“What about my little guys, here? Can’t they protect my king?”

“That’s your rabble, and they’ll do little against the heavy horse.”

Arya frowned. Her own heavy horse had been cornered and skewered by Missandei’s spearmen a dozen turns ago, along with all the pieces she’d sent over to try and save them. Sometimes she wished the queen had picked someone else to keep her company on the trip. Arya was sure she could beat Belwas or Ser Barristan or any of the Dothraki if they played, but Missandei was so good and clever it made Arya angry, and no matter how hard she tried, Arya had yet to beat her.

“Well, what about my trebuchet? They can hit some stupid little horses, can’t they?”

Missandei smiled. “They can … but the rabble will stop them before they fire.”

“But there’s-”

“Crossbows.”

“Ah, then how about-”

“Light horse, then spears for your own.”

“But if I-”

“Dragon.”

“Then-”

“Dragon.”

“Maybe-”

“Dragon.”

Arya knocked her king over, scowling. “Fine!” Missandei held out her hand and Arya shook it angrily.

The scribe giggled at her fury. “You are silly, Mycah. This one has offered to teach you more than just the basics multiple times.”

“I don’t need more than the basics,” Arya snapped. “It’s a game about battle, I should be good at it already if I’m to be a knight one day.”

Missandei calmly gathered up the pieces. “Cyvasse is a game of strategy, not battle. To win, you must think as the commander at the top of the hill does, not the soldier down in the dirt.”

“That’s boring," she said. “The commander only gets to watch. I want to fight.”

“You play cyvasse to win, not to fight. If you would let this one teach you, mayhaps you’d understand. It is strange, you learn High Valyrian willingly enough, but refuse the same for this. Is it common for Westerosi to be so illogical?”

“I’m full of logic!” Arya cried. “Anyway, Queen Daenerys ordered me to learn High Valyrian, not cyvasse.” In truth, Arya did not really see the point of the lessons given they’d be heading west sooner rather than later, but Missandei was good company and a good teacher so she did not complain overmuch.

The gold-eyed girl smiled. “Why not both?” Before Arya could ask what she meant, Missandei had sorted the pieces and slid the divider across ready for another game. “Before you move a piece, you must first answer a question in High Valyrian.”

“What? But that’s not fair! You were already winning each match.”

Missandei tilted her head to the side. “This one does not understand you,” she said in perfect High Valyrian.

“Yes you do!”

“Would you like to arrange your pieces?”

Arya growled in frustration, but still found herself setting her army out across the spaces. If she could beat the little scribe while being shackled by her stupid rules then victory would be even sweeter. Besides, Missandei always smiled when they played, and Arya liked her smile. The board came away, both players had a chance to study each other’s layout, and the game began again.

Missandei brought her light horse forwards. “What is your name?”

It was a gentle start. “My name is Mycah,” she said, moving her dragon up.

She responded with trebuchets. “Where are you from?”

Arya pushed out her own light horse. “I am from Westeros,” she answered.

“Which city are you from?” The rabble came forward.

She paused. Arya had always just said that Mycah was from the North, she’d never had to say where exactly. Under the pressure, her mind went blank, and all she could do was look at the board in front of her. She saw the rabble piece Missandei had moved up, and wondered what she planned to do with it. Then Arya saw her trebuchets off to the side, and imagined them being swarmed in a few turns’ time. 

She had her next move, then, her heavy horse would come up and wipe out the rabble with a thunderous charge. Picturing it, she saw the proud knights of House Manderly in their shining silver armour, and she had her answer at last.

“I’m from White Harbour,” she said, moving the piece.

A little smirk crossed Missandei’s lips, and she moved her rabble back a space. “What is my name?”

Arya reached for an elephant - they were her favourite piece. “Your name is Missandei.”

Crossbows. “Where is this one from?”

“Astapor.” Arya went for her dragon but a small hand shot out to stop her.

Missandei clicked her tongue. “Miss a go.”

“What?”

“You were wrong,” she explained. “Miss a go.”

“I’m not wrong!” said the girl who was wrong. “You’re from Astapor!”

“Her Grace found me in Astapor, but this one was not born there.”

Arya brooded as Missandei took her turn, taking a rabble piece with her heavy horse. “Where are you from, then?”

“Naath,” she said. “The Isle of Butterflies.”

She had never heard of Naath. “Where’s that?”

“Far from here,” said the little scribe. The wheelhouse shook and rumbled in the silence that sat between them.

Arya’s anger went, and she felt a guilt take its place. “When did they take you?”

Her eyes were on the rolling Ghiscari plains. “Six years gone,” she answered. “They were corsairs from the Basilisk Isles, and they landed their boats in the black of night. They slew my father where he stood, and took me and my brothers onto their ships.”

“What about your mother?” she asked, and cursed herself for it as soon as the question left her tongue.

Missandei looked back at her, and Arya felt a deep flush fill her cheeks. “She had no value to them, so they left her there. The last time this one saw her, she was weeping, and calling out for us.”

Now it was Arya’s turn to look away. “I … I’m sorry that happened. I shouldn’t have asked.”

She lay a gentle hand atop Arya’s own. “There is nothing to apologise for. If it did not happen, this one would never have met Queen Daenerys. On Naath, we know that everything happens for a reason. Even if that thing is horrid, and we wish and pray for relief from it, the Lord of Harmony gave it to us for a reason.”

Arya thought of the words Madam Gishama had given her back in Astapor, how she called her broken ankle an opportunity, and encouraged Arya to think of it in the same way. But then she thought of her father’s betrayal and death, and of the war that had broken out after, and Arya struggled to see what reason the gods would have for doing something so very cruel.

“Your brothers …” she said, thinking of her own, and how she would do anything to see them again.

“Astapor has little else to make the boys but Unsullied.”

It was obvious now she thought of it, and Arya cursed her slowness. She knew the price to make Unsullied in more detail than she’d ever wished to, and few boys made it out the other side of that blood-soaked path. “I’m sorry,” she said lamely. It was all Arya could think to say.

Missandei tilted her head to the side. “Are all Westerosi so apologetic? Mossador and Marselen are not sorry, they march north in the name of the Dragon Queen to end the evil of slavery. The Lord of Harmony smiles down at them, and his handmaids bless the ground they walk.”

They lived?  The thought of it brought a smile to her face, though she had never met either man. Arya could not help but picture Robb marching off to fight his own war on the other side of the world. Mayhaps his fight was already done, and he and his men would be waiting for them in King’s Landing. Or mayhaps he’s the one who’s dead, a cruel voice said. Mayhaps he was run down like the true Mycah was, or mayhaps some Lannister knight took his head like Father. She closed her eyes tight till the thoughts left her alone.

“Mycah? Are you well?”

She forced a smile, not wanting to worry her friend. “I’m fine. Can … Can we keep playing?”

In the end, Arya lost, but she did not mind half so much as before. Each successful response felt like its own little win, and the time spent puzzling out the right words gave her a chance to plan out her moves. Missandei said it was the best she’d played so far, and Arya would’ve asked for another game had the wheelhouse not rumbled to a stop for them to make camp for the night. 

Missandei helped her out, and the two watched from the shade of the wheelhouse as the Unsullied dug their ditches and put up their tents. It was still as thrilling as the first time she’d seen it, and Arya had decided that once her cast was off she’d go and learn all she could of how best to set up an army’s camp. She imagined one day leading a force of her own, facing Lannisters or some other foe, and knew the knowledge would be just as useful as her training with Ser Barristan.

The old man also approved of the eunuchs’ work, though only after a thorough inspection the first night they made camp. The tents went up out to in, with the queen’s sprawling red and black pavilion at the centre. She, Belwas, and Ser Barristan slept in a far smaller tent by its entrance, and Arya could just about see its green canvas from where they sat.

She and Missandei sat in the peaceful quiet, free at last from the shaking and rumbling of the wheelhouse, though it did not last long before the pounding of horse hooves and the bickering of Dothraki overcame it. Arya counted five riders, and she knew them all even from a distance. They reigned up before her and Missandei, and looked down at them with amusement.

“Look, we have new Khal Raggat!” teased Jhirri. “It is a fancy cart in which he rides, is it not?”

Jhogo scoffed at the remark. “It is a warrior’s wound, Jhirri. They found the boy in a pile of dead, covered head to toe in the blood of the Masters. He is a hero.”

“A hero who cannot ride,” growled Rakharo. “So he slew some fat men in fringed tokars, what of it? I could do the same with my eyes closed.”

Jhogo laughed. “You are just jealous the boy slew more Astapori than you did.”

Rakharo’s dark brows knitted together. “I am not! I killed more than you!”

Irri snickered behind them. “Khomi cleaned both your vest and Jhogo’s after the fighting, and she said only one left the water red afterwards …”

Rakharo did not join in the laughter that followed, and neither did Arya. The story of her in Astapor had grown well beyond its truth, and Arya could have set it right if she really wanted, but she didn’t. She liked the tale the Dothraki spoke of more than she did the real one. It made her feel like a true fighter, and not at all like the stupid little girl with a broken ankle that she really was.

“We are not even here for the boy,” grumbled Rakharo. “Scribe,” he said, turning to Missandei. “Khaleesi needs you.”

“You can ride with me,” said Irri, offering her hand.

“Irri rides like she was kicked in the head,” explained Jhiqui. “You should go with me.”

Irri scowled at her fellow handmaid. “Well, Jhiqui rides like a scared old woman. The sun will set before you reach Khaleesi if you go with her.”

“Stick woman!”

“Sow girl!”

“Enough. The sun will certainly set if you two keep arguing,” said Jhogo, grinning as he always was. “Here, Missandei, let us be off.” He helped the little scribe up into his own saddle. As the others trotted off, Jhogo stopped to look down at where she sat. “Heal fast, Mycah. Khaleesi will need that blade of yours again soon.”

The gold-eyed girl gave her a shy wave as they turned about, and then Arya was alone.

She could still see the Dothraki when the silence began to chafe at her. Some people preferred their own company, and enjoyed the chance to think and reflect. Her father had been that type, she remembered. If he was not in his solar or with her mother, he was in the Godswood, sitting beneath the heart tree and its steaming black pools. It was his place, and when he left it cost him everything.

Arya did not think she had a place any longer. Winterfell was so very far away, and she knew nothing of what was happening there. She’d been too afraid to ask for news during their first few months of travel, and now they were too far east for anything newer than King Robert’s death to have reached them. 

The spot she was in now wasn’t the worst place to call her own, Arya supposed. It was in the shade, at the least, and there was a nice view of the Skahazadan beyond the rolling arid hills. The sky was starting to bruise as dusk crept in, and the clouds above rolled lazily through a sea of pinks and purples. Arya leant back to better watch them pass, and found herself wondering what each one reminded her of. Missandei was fond of that game, and they would often play that when Arya grew tired of losing at cyvasse. 

“That one’s a castle,” she said, “and that’s a dagger.”

The voice that replied did not belong to the gold-eyed girl.

“Too round to be dagger,” said Strong Belwas, stepping his large frame in front of Arya’s view of the sky. “Looks more like sausage.”

She sat up, annoyed. “Is food all you ever think about?”

He scratched at his scarred belly. “Lots,” he admitted, “but not all. Mi-car should know food is important, though. Maybe if he thought about food more he would be more like soldier than stick,” the sellsword finished, chuckling at his own jape.

Arya scowled. “Well, maybe if you thought harder about having hair you wouldn’t be as bald!”

She wanted to get him back, but her insult only made Belwas laugh harder. “Funny little page,” he said. “That is good, you know. Joke is easier to make than war, and both keep men happy.”

Arya wasn’t trying to be funny, but it was hard to be too annoyed at the big pit fighter. She wondered why he’d come over. “Do you need me for something?” she asked hopefully. Her duties as a page had been cut back after her injury - much to Arya’s annoyance - but there were still a few things she could do.

“No,” he grunted. “Mi-car looked sad sitting by himself, so Strong Belwas came over so he was not alone.”

Big bald softy. Arya reached for her crutch. “I don’t need your pity.” Belwas might not have anything for her to do, but that didn’t mean she had to sit here and be useless.

“Not pity,” he said, grinning. “Help.” Arya felt a broad hand pick her up by her scruff and lift her onto her feet. “There,” he said, proudly. “Help.”

I never asked for your stupid help, she wanted to say, but the pit fighter’s goofy grin stopped her. It’s like shouting at a puppy. “Are we going somewhere?” she asked.

“Whitebeard with little queen, telling his old man stories. Little queen likes them, but I don’t. I leave before I fall asleep and find you. We sit outside tent until he comes out, then we send him to fetch wine and liver and onions, yes?”

Arya knew how much Queen Daenerys enjoyed the tales of her brother Rhaegar, and of how much Ser Barristan liked to tell them. She also knew that it gave the old man a big head to have the ear of the queen, and that sitting bored outside the pavilion as he played storyteller was not much fun at all. Arya loved stories, and had thought about listening in on them on occasion, but always stopped herself. They felt so very personal, and the idea made her feel like an intruder hearing things she ought not to.

Thankfully, they were finished by the time she and Belwas reached the queen’s pavilion. Ser Barristan sat outside, eyes shut as his wrinkled face caught the light of the setting sun. His eyes never opened, but he knew it was them all the same. “Her Grace wishes to speak with you, child.”

“Oh,” she said stupidly. “Did she say what for?”

“No,” he answered mildly. “Nor did I ask.”

Arya chewed her lip. She had not really spoken with Queen Daenerys since Astapor, and she could not help but fear she’d done something wrong. No, she thought, recalling the old knight’s words, stop blaming yourself, stupid! It could be anything … but what?

She looked over at Belwas, and he nodded his big bald head, patted her back with a big brown hand, and said, “Go on, Mi-car. Whitebeard brings us wine and food after little queen is done with you.”

The old man opened his eyes, and a smile threatened to spread across his lips. “Just so,” he said, reaching over to lift the flap of the pavilion. “Shield up, child.”

Arya hobbled through, and the scent of spice and incense hit her. Smoke rose from sticks and dragons alike, and she found the queen sat chatting with her handmaids. Her violet eyes moved across the pavilion to where Arya awkwardly stood, and a gentle smile found its way across her mouth.

The queen wore a cream silk gown trimmed with gold and silver thread, and on either wrist were amethyst bracelets to match her eyes. Her hair fell almost to her shoulders, and shone brilliantly in the evening sun. Two bells were braided into it, small copper things that rang each time she turned her head. She was - as always - a vision of beauty.

“Mycah,” she said. “Welcome.”

“Whitebeard said you were looking for me, Your Grace?”

She patted the empty pillow next to her. “I was. Come, we are speaking about home.”

“Home?” she asked, making her way over to where the girls sat. “Do you mean Westeros?”

Queen Daenerys laughed lightly. “For us, perhaps, though I have nothing but stories of the place. I had meant more generally, Irrir and Jhiqui were telling Missandei of the Dothraki Sea, and she was telling us of Naath in return. You can learn much about a person from how they speak about their home,” she explained. “It’s the canvas on which their life is painted, the bumps and scratches always there just beneath the pigment.” She brought a hand up to her mouth. “That was awfully flowery, wasn’t it? Forgive me, I have been … reminiscing today. Would you tell us of your home, Mycah? The girls have often asked about the destination our winding path takes us to, but my tales are too thin to truly satisfy.”

Arya looked at the row of expectant eyes, and could not help but feel the jaws of some great trap closing about her. “I … I will try, Your Grace, though Ser Jorah or Whitebeard would know more than I.”

She waved a hand. “Ser Jorah has told his tales, and he has been in exile for many years now. I fear Westeros has become a stranger to him in some ways. Whitebeard may know more, but I feel your grandsire prefers his stories with a healthy dose of nostalgia. A man his age does not leave a place a thousand thousand leagues behind if he is fond of it.”

Arya fidgeted with Needle’s pommel. “I’ve made the trip with him, Your Grace. How do you know I don’t feel the same way?”

She smiled. “I don’t. That is why I asked.” The queen placed a hand atop Arya’s own, stilling her fretting fingers. “Tell us, Mycah, and we can know for certain.”

“Khaleesi says you are from frozen land where everyone is sad,” said Jhiqui. “Is this so?”

Arya frowned at the queen. A blush found her cheeks. “Jhiqui has turned my words a little … harsher, but she is not far off the mark. Viserys did not say much about the North, and what he did was not kind. I did love him, but my brother was wrong about much and more in his life. I’d like to know if he is wrong in this, too, if you feel able to tell us.”

She nodded. “It is cold, and some people are sad, but that’s most places, I suppose. It’s not the worst description, Your Grace.”

That pleased the handmaid. “Jhiqui tells the best stories, it is known.”

That displeased the other handmaid. “Jhiqui tells the best lies, it is known.”

“Is not!”

“Is so. You told Rakharo that-”

A stern look from the queen was all it took to end the argument. “Missandei told us about her village in Naath,” Queen Daenerys said. “It sounded so beautiful …”

“Gosassa,” said the little scribe. “It means ‘Where the sun shines strongest’. This one’s mother said it was named by the village founders when they saw how much larger the fruit grew. There was a grove of mango trees atop a hill that overlooked the sea, and if you climbed one on a clear day you could see for leagues all around. This one’s brother said he saw all the way to the other side of the island once, but Moss likes to make things up.”

Arya imagined herself chasing Bran up a tree much like that, breathless from both effort and laughter. “We have trees like that,” she blurted out. “We have a great big weirwood with a face carved on it, pine sentinels tall as towers, oaks older than any living man. We don’t have mango trees, though, that would be something,” she finished, flashing Missandei a little smile.

“Ser Jorah talks often of the trees on Bear Island,” said the queen, “but he never mentioned a weirwood. I take it you do not hail from there, so where are you from, Mycah?”

“Winter …” she trailed off, suddenly realising where she was and who she was meant to be, “...town,” Arya finished lamely.

“Wintertown?” she asked. “I fear I do not know it. Is it a large town?”

“It sounds cold,” said Irri, mouth twisting at the thought.

Arya chewed her lip. “It … It sits beneath the walls of Winterfell,” she explained. It wasn’t a lie, though the bit about her being from there was.

“Winterfell,” said the queen, voice turning cold as winter itself. “The icy fortress of House Stark.”

It’s not icy, she wanted to say. It’s warm. The hot springs bring up heat from below to chase out the chill, and if you’re still cold you can fetch a blanket or have Gage cook up something warm to eat. Old Nan will be waiting with a story and plenty of logs for the hearthfire. You’ll never feel as safe or comfortable as you do there. Never. Arya wanted to say all of it, to make the queen understand, but she knew it could not be. Not yet.

“They were … good to me,” she said quietly. “Good to us.”

Queen Daenerys looked away, bells in her hair tinkling softly. “If only I could say the same.”

“You could, Your Grace. If you wanted, you could.” I could help make it right. 

She turned back, and seemed to remember herself. “Ignore me, Mycah. It is cruel of me to weigh down thoughts of your home with mine own grievances. It’s your home … your place. No one can take that away from you, not even a queen,” she said, her smile returning. She placed her hand back on Arya’s. “I promise you will see it again, Mycah, and you can show me the oaks and the pines and the weirwood, too. You’ll see it all again, I promise. If you stay by my side.”

“I will,” Arya said. “So long as you’ll have me, I will never leave your side again, Your Grace.” She took a breath, and knew the time had come. “Astapor was … I was wrong. I should have trusted you, I should have stayed obedient, I should have-”

Before Arya knew what was happening, the queen had wrapped her in a tight embrace. She was a page, training one day to be a knight, so she certainly did not notice how sweet the queen smelt, nor was she aware of the press of her breasts against her side.

“Never, ever apologise for standing up for what you believe in.” The queen whispered the words into her ear. “Astapor … Astapor was your proudest moment, Mycah. The type of tale they’ll tell when you’re a knight proper, I’m sure.” She pulled back, glanced at the others. “All of us … We took a stand that day, but you got there first, and did not move an inch. That day … I regret nothing of what happened … nothing … save that you were not there with us. I should have told you of my plans when we spoke on the deck, but … I was afraid. Ser Jorah spoke of lies behind the smiles, of three betrayals foretold, and I listened. You are still so young - it is easy to forget sometimes - but I am a woman grown, and a queen, to boot. I left you on your own, and you were hurt.”

The tent was quiet, and the noise of the camp could be heard faintly from outside. Belwas’ brash laughter, and Whitebeard’s even tone. The queen took Arya’s hand in her own. “When I took you into my service, we made a pact, you and I. You took me as your rightful queen, swore your sword into my service, and rose as my man, but so too did I swear to keep you safe, to offer you shelter and succour for as long as you served me.” Arya felt Queen Daenerys’s grip tightened. “The gods are merciful that the worst you suffered was a shattered ankle, though I imagine it’s little comfort to you at the moment.”

Her violet eyes were shining, and Arya did not quite know what to say. Then she looked at Missandei, and returned the gold-eyed girl’s smile. “It’s not all that bad, Your Grace.”

That night, she dreamed of direwolves.

It was her pack, Nymeria’s pack, and they ran fast beneath the pale moonlight. They were her nightfall family, misfits and outcasts brought together through drive and desperation. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. The lone wolf dies, but this pack thrives.

The woods were their kingdom, and she was their queen. Nymeria, direwolf, protector, warrior. Wolf Without Fear. Bane of Manfolk. Leader of the Pack. When Arya closed her eyes at night, she was all of that and more, but when she opened them each morning, all of it slipped away.

Arya had thought them dreams for the longest time, but she’d been wrong. She’d always known, deep down, but it was only when she reached out one night and felt Nymeria answer that Arya knew it was real. Six wolf pups found in the snow. Six children born of Lord Eddard Stark. The weirwoods might be a world away, but the old gods’ power still lingered.

The bond had been damaged by time and distance and rocks thrown through floods of tears, but each night Arya reached out and Nymeria answered it grew stronger. Each night she slipped free of her small, broken body, swapped one working leg for four, swapped the stifling heat of Slaver’s Bay for the crisp cold of Westeros, swapped her doubts and worries and fears for the simple certainty of the hunt.

She cherished the change, and from time to time when her waking world became too much, Arya would wonder what would happen if she never woke up, if she left her stupid broken ankle and went off to be a direwolf for true. It was a thrilling idea, but a scary one, too, like standing on a tall, tall ledge ready to leap.

They were the girl’s thoughts, however, and right now the wolf reigned.

Through the trees they wound, a stream of fur and fury. The scent of manflesh was rank in the air, heavy and unwelcome. They would fix that soon enough. She sent her brothers and sisters out to both her sides, planning to close about the manfolk like a jaw about a neck. Soon enough for that, too.

Their den was a sad thing, a few scraps to lie on and a fire that had been dying for some time. The manfolk were not much better. They spat and growled at each other in their manfolk tongue, breath sour like rank fruit. Their coats were filthy, ragged things, covered in mud so they seemed more brown than red. She rumbled out a low growl at the sight. Lannisters, thought the girl. Meat, thought the wolf.

The manfolk had fought over this territory for many moons, thousands and thousands had died scratching and biting with steel teeth to water the land with their blood. They thought squatting in some tall stone den nearby made the land about it theirs, but they were wrong. Manfolk were always wrong. She sniffed, smelt three … four of them, beneath the smoke and pine and mud. A pitiful pack, hers outnumbered it twenty fold. A light rain began to fall, dulling the already dull fire, and the wolves crept closer.

She sniffed again, caught the scent of the prey they’d caught, and also … Bran? Summer? It was just a scent, and as she turned she saw no sign of them. It had startled her, and the hairs on her back rose in reply. She lifted her ears, grasping for an answer, but heard only the rain and the wind, its droplets swallowed up by a winding stream. She sniffed in vain at the base of a pale tree trunk covered in moss, and shook her head, refocusing on the night’s meal.

You’re a long way from home, sister …

The wolf’s head shot up, ears raised, tail out. The wind whistled through the branches, carrying the voice of her brother. Her pack looked at her, uncertain, but she ignored them. Droplets fell and rippled across the surface, shifting and changing till a boy’s face was looking back at her. 

Bran! She tilted her head, confused. Why do you have three eyes?

A rippling smile spread across his face. It’s a long story, one we sadly haven’t the time for. It’s good to see you, Arya. I’ve been trying terribly hard to find you.

She didn’t understand. Have you been looking for me?

Day and night, but every time I checked where you ought to be, you weren’t there.

Why are you out searching? You … You fell, Bran. Father said you would never walk again …

He was right. I can’t walk, or run, or dance … but I can fly . Shall I teach you how? There’s a trick to it, you see. Before you fly, you have to fall.

Her mind was spinning, and her certainty of the truth of this was shaking. What? Where are you, Bran? How are we speaking?

I’m far away, Arya.

Winterfell? she asked the wind.

Winterfell … Winterfell is changed, sister. Like us.

Changed? Arya growled at the thought. The rain lashed down, and thunder rumbled above, drowning out the manfolk’s screams. I don’t understand.

Her brother’s face looked sad. You left, Arya, and a lot has happened. The ripples shifted. Here, he said, I’ll show you. You just need to open your eyes.

Uncertain, she made to back away, but a sudden clap of lightning above pulled her attention, and when she looked back, a watery hand laid a finger between her eyes, and then she flew.

Up and up and up she went, away from her pack, the woods, the dying Lannisters, all of it. It shrunk as she soared, wind and rain flew past fast as horses, and the sky was a blanket of blackness above. The strange wind took her north, and Arya cried out, though there was nothing around to hear her.

Take me home, she prayed, eyes shut tight. Oh, please, please take me home.

When she opened her eyes, Winterfell was in front of her. Grey granite walls, towers and turrets, hearths and halls. All of it was there … but smaller. No, not smaller … I’m further away, she realised. I’m … I’m flying! Truly flying, unlike the hurtling throw that brought her there. She raised an arm, and found a black wing in its place - the same was true on the other side. There was very little certainty about any of this night, but Arya knew that girls could not fly any more than direwolves could. 

She laughed at the madness of it, and a squawk emerged from her beak. I have a beak! She laughed again, shrill and loud, and chirped happily at the feel of the wind against her feathers. I can fly! I can fly! I-- How do I know how to fly? Arya looked at her wings once again, and the spell was broken.

Arya scrambled for purchase, and clawed at nothing but air. Her wings flailed aimlessly as her feet sought a branch they would never find. She screamed and squawked but she was all alone up here, a bird who didn’t know how to fly. I’m falling, she thought. I’m really falling. Winterfell grew closer and closer as the ground and all it brought crept nearer. It seemed jagged and broken, like a set of grey teeth waiting to swallow her whole. All the warmth she’d felt when she first saw it was gone, chased out by the chill of the air now rushing past.

There were other birds, other crows, who were watching her plummet half-interestedly. She squawked at them to help, but the best she got was a few of them setting off from their perch on the Broken Tower to get a better view. Show offs! They make it look so simple!

Quite abruptly, her mind went to Bran, and she wondered if her brother felt this helpless during his own fall. I fell, she heard him say, but then I flew.

How? she squawked.

It’s easy! cried the silent shout. Fall and fly or fall and die.

It’s not easy!

Yes it is, stupid !

I’ve never done it before!

Neither had I. Now fall and fly or fall and die.

The courtyard grew larger each second, and Arya wondered what hitting the ground would truly mean for her. Would this be it? Or would she awake in her pavilion with Ser Barristan and Belwas, and all of this would feel like some awful dream. As the hard-packed dirt raced up to meet her, Arya decided she’d rather not find out.

Fall and fly, she told herself. Fall and fly. She’d done quite enough falling, so all that was left to do was fly. The next voice that came to her was not her brothers’, but Syrio Forel’s. Calm as still water, girl. Find your balance. Set your feet. And fly!

Arya twisted till her feet faced down once more, brought her wings tight against her body, and waited … and waited … and waited …

Flying was simple, really.

Swift as a sparrow. Cunning as a crow. She soared up and over the tips of the trees of the godswood, passing right over the heart tree and its red canopy. She’d never seen it from this height before, a blanket of green, red, and orange that swayed and sighed in the breeze. She circled round the Broken Tower and cawed smugly at the other crows, but things weren’t right when she turned the corner.

All of it was burnt and broken. Her home … All of it was gone.

The First Keep was half-collapsed, the ground beneath it littered with stones and shattered gargoyles. The inside was no better, the wooden walls and floors were blackened and burnt, a cold husk where once there’d been so much. The castle walls had been spared the worst of the damage, but the panes of the glass gardens nestled against them were smashed, the plants within them gone or left to wither in the cold. Luwin’s turret was gone, as was Mother’s sept, and the bridge between the Bell Tower and the rookery had collapsed into the yard below.

Arya circled what was once the roof of the Great Hall, its beams and ramparts had collapsed into a smouldering pile where benches and trestle tables once stood. She remembered nights spent sitting with her family in there listening to the tales of the household - Mikken and his forge, Hullen and horseflesh, Chayle and the mysteries of the Faith. She’d found Hullen dying in the Red Keep’s stables a thousand years ago, and she supposed Mikken and Chayle and the rest of the people of Winterfell had joined him in that fate.

She saw steam rising from a small lake beneath the Library Tower, the hot springs' water gushing free from a crack at the tower’s base. It made her sick to see it,and Arya thought of Queen Daenerys’ description of her home: an icy fortress, cold and hard. As she watched Winterfell’s lifeblood leaking out to puddle the ground, it was hard to disagree. How can I show her this? What is left even to see?

The crow flew away and up, stopping at the Great Keep to perch on the ledge of a broken window behind which remained a blackened room. The wind whistled through, low and lonely, and the bird hopped through the shards of glass to perch atop a charred and crumbling bed post. The room’s great oak-and-iron door was ajar, tapping lightly against the frame, creaking gently each time. 

The girl looked through black eyes at the devastation. The bed - her bed - was singed and ash-strewn, the linens turned crisp and black from the flames. Her chests and trunks, closets and cases, all were burnt. The curtains were reduced to flimsy scraps that waved in the wind like bony fingers, and the carpets were blackened and curled at the corners. She hopped down onto it, padded across the ashen surface, but stopped when something beneath the bed caught her eye.

Her beak caught the object and pulled it out slowly. It was wood and cloth, and badly burned, but Arya could recognise her own crooked stitches from a league away. It was the sewing hoop from the day Princess Myrcella and her ladies had sewn with them. Arya had run off and never finished it, choosing to hide it under her bed when her mother came to tell her off. She’d hated everyone and everything in that moment, but now she’d do anything to have it all back. The hoop had been forgotten in the chaos of their leaving, and a mix of dust and ash now covered the half-finished … whatever she’d been trying to make. It hurt to see it again, to think of how simple her worries had once been, how small and silly it all seemed now.

She picked at a loose thread with her beak, and the stitching began to come undone. Arya tugged harder, placing a taloned foot on the hoop as more grey thread came loose. When it got stuck, she pecked at the cloth, biting and tearing great gashes in the fabric, scratching with her claws and screaming out her anger and rage. 

In her mind, the hoop’s cloth was the face of whoever did this to her home … whoever did this to her … though it never grew clearer than a blur. Who? she asked the air, the walls, the ash and soot and scars. Who did this to you? 

Arya dropped the hoop and flew out the creaking door through burnt and blackened corridors. Lannisters? No. There was no way for them to cross the Neck safely, never mind marching great leagues filled with Northmen to reach Winterfell. She kept going, twisting through halls familiar yet different, as if she were running through them in a dream.

Who else? She scratched her mind for answers to who would deal such a cruel blow to her family. Four kings and no justice … The brothers? Lord Renly and Lord Stannis could be the answer, but they were further south than the Lannisters, and what ill had the North done to them to cause such destruction? She cawed, angry, and stopped at an open window. 

All below her was death.

Corpses were strewn across the courtyard, and she was far from the only crow there. They flitted from one body to the next, scavenging for scraps. Man or woman, it made no matter. They feasted on them all. Arya wondered how many were people she knew, how many had known her since she was born, how many had served her family with grace and honour. Is Luwin down there? Is Hodor? Old Nan? Ser Rodrik? Beth? Her heart thrummed. Is Bran? Is Rickon? The crows cawed below, and Arya swore there was laughter in the noise.

She could stand it no longer, and so she flew. She screamed and cawed and flapped her wings, scattering the birds enough to see who they were feasting on. The first face was a stranger, as was the second, and so it went for each man she landed on. Some were Northmen, with livery she recognised, who died protecting Winterfell from the assault, most likely. Sad as it was, there was no time to thank them for their service, and the other crows gave little thought before returning to their food once Arya was gone.

It was not until she reached the gatehouse that Arya finally saw a familiar face. It was his whiskers that gave him away.

Ser Rodrik Cassell lay still in the muddy yard, white face whiskers speckled with brown. His arm had been cut at the elbow, and no matter how loud Arya squawked or how much she batted at him with her wings, he did not move. You were supposed to teach me to fight! Like how you taught Jon and Robb and Father! She desperately wanted to cry, but crows shed no tears. She flapped her wings instead. Who did this? Who did this? Who … The last flap knocked the old man’s hand loose and it flopped into the mud in the direction of another corpse.

Arya hopped over to it, and that’s when she saw the squid.

It was the answer she’d been seeking. It was Theon’s mocking smile. It was stories of a rebellion crushed before she was born, and a boy taken as hostage. It made her sick and sad and angry beyond words. It was House Greyjoy. It was the men who destroyed her home.

She tossed and turned, her feathers stood on end, her heart pounded in her chest. She scratched at the corpse’s face, pecked at its eyes, tore at the kraken sewn on its breast till it was a kraken no longer. “Gone,” she growled. “It’s all gone.” There was blood on her lips and tears in her eyes, and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. Arya looked about, and knew she could not be there a second longer.

The bird took off, away from the broken castle and its ghosts. Wings beat hard against the air, the girl’s arms burned from the effort. Up and up and up, but the girl felt something pulling her back and back and back, till the sky turned to a pinprick a thousand, thousand leagues away.

“Gone,” she murmured. “Gone. Gone.”

“Gently, child,” said a familiar voice. “Breathe. That’s it.” 

The sky was gone, so was the castle. She was in a dark tent … their dark tent. Her eyes slowly sharpened, and she saw it was old Ser Barristan sat over her. Arya’s throat was dry and raw, her voice a strained whisper.

“I … I…”

“You were having a nightmare, child, but it’s over now. You’re safe. I promise.”

His arms were about her, Arya felt like a feeble little thing, tiny and tired. She closed her eyes, saw her home wrecked and ruined, and felt all the shock and grief and pain of it hit her. Arya let out a shuddering sob, buried her face into the old knight’s chest, and gripped tight to his robes. “Gods,” she whispered, weeping. “Oh, gods, gods.”

Ser Barristan stroked her hair, so gently. “Oh, sweet girl,” he murmured. “You’re safe … You’re safe …”