Sam

The merciless southern sun has been already at its zenith, torturing slaves gathered in the courtyard. Sam was exhausted from all the walking and beating and now the terrible heat, but still managed to support his brother, who could barely stand on his own. Every man fallen was whipped up to their feet – some stood up and some never did. Dean's wound hadn't stopped bleeding and his right sleeve was dripping with blood. Sam feared that his brother would black out any moment.

Finally, the Merchant of Qarth they've been waiting on appeared from the golden arced gates before them. He was so short, any man of the Guard or the slave trader's army could've crashed him with one arm disabled. Nonetheless, everyone bowed to him. The slaves fell down to their knees and touched the ground with their foreheads. Sam helped his brother down and did the same, bitter at the fact he wouldn't be able to see what's going on.

- What is this?! – a highly irritated voice demanded.

- New slaves for Your Grace to choose from. – Sam heard slave trader's hoarse voice.

- I'm a merchant, not a King, you moron. Whose idea was to keep them here, in the sun, without any water? They bleed, they stink.. ugh.. like Seven Hells, and most of them are nearly dead. What is my so-called Grace supposed to choose from?

- I'll whip them up to their feet again if My Lord wants to check their strength. – slave trader's voice sounded a little scared. That's something new. Sam had never heard of anyone that slave traders were afraid of.

- You're new, aren't you? – the Merchant was audibly disgusted.

- Yes, M'Lord.

- I'm not a Lord either, by the way. Now you listen to me, scum of the Free Cities. You're an embarrassment to the art of Trade. Any merchant knows they should keep their goods presentable. I'd never leave my sweets and silks rot in the sun. You understand me? Show up at my door with such filthy stack of meat one more time and I'll have your limbs fed to the hounds.

During this unusual scolding Sam noticed that the Merchant didn't have a southern accent. He could swear that the guy wasn't from the Seven Kingdoms either. Curious.

- Max, buy all living men from this moron. Half the price and his life will be enough. Have them cleaned and fed properly.

Sam heard the slave trader gruff uneasily, but there was no word of complaint.

- Oh, interesting. – the Merchant's voice rand just above Sam's head. – Where did you get these two?

- In Vaes Dothrak, as all of them, M'Lord.

- You lie. – was the answer, and Sam heard a snap of fingers and then a cry of pain coming from the slave trader. – Try again.

- I… I don't know, my boys brought them! I swear, M'Lord!

- Hey, big fella, stand up.

Sam knew that was about him. He stood up carefully, making sure to keep his eyes off the Merchant's face (a slave looking straight at his master would be put to death immediately). The most powerful man in Qarth was at least a head shorter than Sam, quite plump, and wrapped in the purple and golden silks from head to toe. From the first glance Sam knew it will be hard to determine the Merchant's provenance. His skin was fair, indicating the northern origin, and his hair black, cut short. He was wearing his beard in a very unique fashion, which Sam has never seen before.

- Where did you come from? Is there blood of giants flowing through your veins?

After half a second of contemplating Sam decided he'd be telling the truth, as he noticed that the slave trader had an arrow put though his forearm.

- I'm from the Riverlands, My Lord. It's across the sea, right near the…

- I know where the Riverlands are, - the Merchant interrupted. – I think you are not just from the Riverlands, but from Riverrun. Tell me, am I right? Are you of noble birth? And look me in the eye while talking!

Sam met his owner's gaze, wondering how this man's guesses can be so accurate. He then was stunned by how eyes didn't match the overall impression of the man before him. Those were eyes of a wise man, calm and deep, sparking with curiosity, not dull watery eyes of a common merchant.

- I… I am of House Tully, My Lord.

- Is this man of House Tully also? – the Merchant gestured to Dean, who had made an effort to stand up, but failed.

- Yes, My Lord. Excuse my brother's manners, he's suffered a severe wound and I'm afraid it'd started to fest.

I see that. Well, you must have a fascinating story to tell… Max, take a good care of these two, and see to this one's wound. Then bring them to me.