A small group of black-clad warriors moved among the narrow twilit lanes of Meereen's upper-class pleasure district, high on the slopes overlooking the harbor. In the sky behind them, the Great Pyramid glowed with the golden rays of the setting sun; likewise, the top halves of the two- and three-story buildings lining the street. But down at ground level, all was in shadow, and their clothing made them difficult to see in the growing darkness.
Two of the three wore black armor of boiled leather with the kraken sigil of the Ironborn embossed on their chests; their pale complexions marked them as Westerosi, and their walk as sailors – or at least, as folk just come to land after a long sea voyage. The third, dark of skin and close-trimmed, was dressed in a manner common to Unsullied when off duty; he marched beside them, eyes never still, seeming more a guard than a companion.
The group turned a corner, and the alley widened enough to permit a row of market stalls along one side. The merchandise, coiffed and perfumed and immodestly attired, smiled at the travelers and offered pleasant suggestions. Theon Greyjoy avoided their eyes and shrugged uncomfortably, as if settling a heavy pack at the start of a long journey. "I don't see why I have to be a part of this."
"Because it's a gesture of hospitality to both of us from our new ally," said his sister, eying a girl nearly falling out of her golden tunic as she leaned over. A sailor stepped between Yara and the girl and grasped her wrist, leading her away; immediately after, a group of similarly-dressed men invaded the market, and a moment later the stalls were empty. They went on. "You remember her, don't you? The one with the pretty eyes and the pert little arse and hair like corn silk – and eighty thousand troops, a thousand ships, and a flock of dragons big enough to swallow a man whole? The little queen half the lubbers in Slaver's Bay worship on their knees?"
She glanced at the Unsullied guiding them, but he gave no sign of having understood ; the only time they had heard him speak, he had been instructing a palace guard - in Valerian, not Common.
She went on, "Meereen is one of the most famous fleshpots in the known world. Tomorrow, we sail for Westeros on the morning wind. We'll probably never see this place again. Am I going to have to listen to you complain all night?"
"Well, what am I supposed to do?"
"Drink in the parlor. Watch other people having fun. Chat up a girl, if you can find one who speaks proper language. You don't have to go into a back room with her and start crying over your lost cock." She went on, "Sorry. But you heard the Dragon Queen say she already arranged for this outing. I understand you not wanting to bring up your little problem in her throne room, but you can't refuse now."
Grey Worm spoke, startling them. "The owner of the Garden of Joy also owns several other brothels," he said in accented Common. "One of them caters to Unsullied. If you have no objection to spending the evening apart, your brother might be more comfortable there."
Theon felt the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth at Yara's expression. He was reminded of his return to Pyke, when his long-parted sister had met him at the dock, and he hadn't recognized her, instead mistaking her for a servant. They had ridden double back to the castle, and she had endured his groping hands the whole way, just for the pleasure of revealing herself to him in front of their father.
Yara recovered quickly, and went on the offensive. "How in the name of all the false gods does an Unsullied get 'comfortable' in a brothel?"
"There is more to a man than his stem," said the captain of the Unsullied. "And more to a woman than something to grip it."
"Sounds like you go there pretty often," Yara said.
"No," he replied. "Never. But I understand their need."
The street ended at a closed double door set into a ten-foot wall. Over its top could be seen the roof of a large house. The men guarding the gate stepped aside and pulled the doors wide at their approach.
The path on the other side led through a garden to the house. Yara eyed the ornamental plantings and statuary. "Fancy. Hope the beer's good."
At the door, a sumptuously dressed older woman greeted them in Valerian, and Grey Worm replied in the same language. The madam guided them into a parlor rich with fine fabrics and furnishings. She nodded at him, then looked Yara over with a little smile, making a low sound in her throat. In accented Common Tongue she said, "Welcome to the Garden of Joy. What is your pleasure, my lady? We have a new boy, a beautiful Dothraki, tall and dark-eyed and muscled like a god. Fully trained, though not entirely broken in, and a stallion, if you-"
"Let's have a look at your bitches," Yara said. "Do you have anything to drink here?"
The woman smiled wider. "Anything you have ever experienced or might want to, from Summer Isles white to fermented mare's milk." She gestured for Yara to follow her. "The hostesses come from all over the world as well, my lady, and some practice … unusual disciplines. In all modesty, I say that you may have difficulty choosing just one."
"Then maybe I won't. Lead on." Yara took a step to follow the madam, then said over her shoulder, "Stay out of trouble, Theon. And try to enjoy yourself. I'm not going to think about you the rest of the night."
Grey Worm and Theon exited the way they came, but then the soldier led his companion in a different direction, heading down the long slope that ended at the harbor. The farther down they went, the less tidy and pretty things were. The first thing Theon noticed was the faint smell of burnt things in the air. Shortly after, he observed bits of stonework strewn in the street, and scorch marks on the façades of the occasional building. Before long, the rubble piles shoveled against the walls grew larger and more frequent, with damaged structures outnumbering sound ones. The smell of burning pitch was stronger, and mixed in with it another smell, sharp and metallic, that stung the eyes: the smell of the harbor when the Ironborn fleet had arrived, cruising past charred masts sticking up out of the water.
"Dragonfire," said Grey Worm. "This is where the Masters' bombardment was heaviest, and where she ended it." They turned, in the direction of the Great Pyramid. "A bit farther. The Warrior's Rest is almost in the shadow of the Pyramid. We keep our comforts close to our duties."
Theon marched beside the Unsullied in uneasy silence, gathering his courage. He studied the stoic man's measured step, his straight back, his seeming self-assurance and confidence. Finally, when they turned the last corner and another guarded gate appeared at the end of a long straight alley, he said, "It's true then? About all of you? That you were…"
"Yes."
Theon swallowed. "What, what was it like for you?"
The soldier hesitated between one step and the next. "I don't remember it well. I was a boy. I don't think I fully understood what was going to happen. My whole training group had it done at the same time. I do remember standing in line outside the infirmary, waiting my turn. I was called in, bound to a table, and the medicus tied off my parts with string. His knife was sharp. The most painful part was when he cauterized the wounds." He walked beside Theon, looking straight ahead for once. "And you?"
"Different." He found himself shivering.
Grey Worm halted, and Theon stopped as well, hunching over like an old man while the memories flooded in. "They held me down. He let me get a good look at the knife first. It was huge, and hooked, as if it was made more for tearing than cutting. Then he told me what he was going to do, what I would lose forever. He took his time. He liked hearing me beg before he started, and hearing me scream when he went to work. I remember hoping I might bleed to death, but they bound me up and tied me to that frame while I healed, and every day he would come down to taunt me. I…" He looked to the end of the street, and the guarded doorway. "I can't. I can't do anything in there."
The soldier regarded Theon for a long moment. Finally he said, "Not everything he took from you is beyond your power to take back. A year ago, I had nothing I could call mine – not even my body or my name. Freedom begins when you have a chance to be something more than what others have made of you, and you take it."
Grey Worm turned and marched toward the door; a moment later, Theon followed.
The area just inside the gates of the Warrior's Rest held no greenery, just an awning-shaded courtyard with stone benches around a small fountain. But the air was freshened and cooled by the moisture in the air, and the sound of the falling water soothed. An Unsullied lay full upon one of the benches, his head in the lap of a lovely but plainly-dressed girl; he started to rise at their approach, but Grey Worm gestured him back down, and they walked on to the brothel's door.
The greeting area of the house was considerably simpler than the one at the Garden. The fabrics hanging from the walls were plain and thick, but well-woven, as were the carpets; their footfalls disappeared as soon as they entered. A wide wooden stair led up to the second floor, and on it Theon could see an Unsullied and a prostitute ascending hand in hand.
The madam was less ornate as well, and more businesslike. She spoke gravely with Grey Worm in Valerian, the exchange going back and forth several times before she turned to Theon. "Pardon, my lord," she said in clear Common Tongue, "but we are in somewhat of a bind. Every off-duty Unsullied and sailor in Meereen is looking for company tonight. In the houses on the heights that serve the nobles and the wealthy, there are no shortages, but here we are hard pressed. Every prostitute and entertainer in the Lower Quarter has been called into service. Even former slaves who rejoice that they no longer must part their legs for their masters have come into the streets to offer themselves in farewell to the Mother's men. But still the numbers are scarcely enough, and selection is thin."
Theon felt the knot in his belly loosen, even as a strange heaviness squeezed his eyes and chest. "I understand. You don't have anyone. You weren't expecting us, and-"
"No." She sawed her hand sideways. "My lord, you are a guest and ally of the Mother of Dragons. Any Unsullied would give up his evening of pleasure to provide such a one his choice of companions."
Theon glanced at Grey Worm; the captain's stern and unmoving face told him the woman was telling the exact truth. He said to her, "I don't want anyone to do that." Any of them deserves it more than I, he thought. I, who have cast aside everything of worth that was ever offered me, reaching for what I could never have.
The woman opened her mouth and paused, as if deciding what to say, then went on, "We have one girl tonight, who is … unattached. She usually earns her keep in the kitchen or laundry, but she has been known to take clients from time to time. She's no great beauty, but she is presentable enough, and is experienced in the wants of … men like the Unsullied. And she is Westerosi, so you can talk to her if you like." She added, "Some men do."
A gift from our new ally, Yara's voice echoed in his mind. You can't refuse now. "If, if she is willing."
"Of course," the madam said. "There are no slaves in Meereen." She took a step backward and gestured to another girl. "There will be a short wait while preparations are made. Please take refreshment. Silla will bring you anything we have."
Silla was a cool beauty, dark of eye and hair, her clear skin the color of sand. "We have a selection of wine and ale," she said to the two men. "Beer as well. Nothing fancy, but pleasant enough on the tongue."
"Water," said Grey Worm.
She nodded, as if expecting his reply. "And you, my lord?"
Theon was tempted to ask for wine; perhaps this humiliation would be easier if he was drunk. "Water as well."
She disappeared and returned almost immediately with a pitcher and cups, all plain brown glazeware. As she poured into the cup in his hand, Theon said, "Do you only work in the kitchen too?"
She smiled. "My man will be coming later, when he is released from duty." She flicked a glance at Theon from under her lashes. "Madam Buvai would have offered me to you, my lord, to entertain you until his arrival, but she knows men like the Unsullied require more than an hour of a woman's attention." She turned to fill the captain's cup and said, a little wistfully, "Our time together will be short enough. Before dawn, all the Queen's heroes and fighting men will board the ships, and after that we will have only traders and shopkeepers to entertain."
"The Second Sons will remain in Meereen to keep the Queen's peace," Grey Worm observed.
"The Second Sons are lousy tippers," the girl replied. "Unless they're very drunk, and then when they wake they accuse us of stealing." She met the captain's eyes. "How often have the Unsullied come to a place like this to drag out a Second Son, roaring like a gored bull and making threats? What sort of peace do you suppose such men will keep?"
"There will be no one else," he said. "Sometimes, when a man is forced to assume a position of responsibility, he grows into the job. The captain of the Second Sons is intelligent and capable, and he will do whatever the Queen bids him."
The girl made a tiny sound and flicked her lashes. "I'm sure you're right." When Grey Worm's face turned stony, she smiled.
Theon sipped his water, wondering about the undercurrents of their exchange. His time with Ramsey had made him very sensitive to the moods and thoughts underlying a person's words. These two knew something about the mercenary captain, or perhaps their queen, that they would not discuss in front of an outsider. He took another nervous sip…
And noticed the faint odd tang in the water.
Alarmed, he reached for the cup at Grey Worm's lips and covered it. "Don't drink any more! There's something in it!"
"Yes," said Grey Worm, scowling. "Vinegar." He took another swallow.
"Just a touch," Silla said. "It's how the Unsullied prefer."
"It cuts phlegm on a dusty march, and aids digestion," the captain said. He finished his cup and set it down beside the pitcher.
The girl regarded Theon carefully. "Did I err, pouring your drink from the same pitcher? Would you like one of your own?"
"No," he said, feeling a fool. He drained his cup as well, and set it beside Grey Worm's. "I'm sorry."
"I imagine that to men who lead lives surrounded by danger, such caution is natural." But she continued to study him. Theon's embarrassment was washed away by unease. He had been subjected almost daily to acts of treachery and betrayal intended to grind every fiber of independence out of him, and to make trust seem perilous. The girl's solicitousness was too reminiscent of Ramsey's, just before the monster sprang some new torment upon him. What was she really thinking?
The madam returned. "This way, my lord." She led him toward the staircase, but instead of climbing the steps, she entered a door beneath it. Theon followed her down a wide, undecorated passage that bent and jogged and branched until he lost all hope of finding his way back unguided. The doors which lined the way were mostly closed, but some doors were open, and he glimpsed storage rooms, their shelves loaded with clothing or foodstuffs or cookware.
Finally, they passed through a kitchen, warm and fragrant with the smells of meat and bread and spices. The madam veered aside, to a short hallway enclosing half a dozen doors. She continued to the farthest and stopped.
"Here," she said, laying a hand on the latch. "When you're ready, she can show you the way back. If she pleases you well enough to stay the night, you'll have a hot meal from the kitchen before you leave."
"Thank you," he said, not knowing what else to say. His gut tightened again.
"Thank you, my lord, for your understanding." She unlatched the door and opened it a hand's width, then stepped aside. "Pleasant evening."
The girl sat on the side of the bed, dressed in working clothing plain but clean. A serviceable body, he thought, for a man to whom such things still mattered. Her downturned face and dark forward-falling hair mostly hid her features, though: Theon could see only her brow and the bulb at the tip of her nose. A glance at the pegs and shelves holding a number of personal items told him that the room was likely her own, and not normally used for entertaining. A narrow curtain hung on one wall probably hid her privy…
She glanced up at him and froze, and her eyes widened until he could see the whites all around. Surprise? Fear? What had she been expecting, some fine Meereenese lord, or Unsullied noncom? Not the gaunt-looking Westerosi in worn black plate who stood at her door, clearly. What would…
She looked familiar.
He studied her face. It certainly wouldn't frighten children, but would never be called beautiful either - rather mannish, actually. Besides the wide and irregular nose, she had a narrow receding chin, making her lower lip appear to stick out, and lines at the corners of her mouth and nose, despite her youth. If she smiled wide, they would likely turn to long creases rather than dimples…
Smile with your lips closed.
I would be your salt wife, milord.
"Milli," the girl said. "That's the name you were trying to remember, milord."
-0-
As soon as the madam and the Ironborn disappeared through the doorway, Silla said, "Shall I show you to your room, Captain? Your hostess is already there."
Grey Worm swallowed. "Yes." As they walked to the foot of the staircase, he asked, "Has she been waiting long?"
"She arrived just before you." She lowered her lashes and smiled. "I think she was expecting a longer wait, but I am sure she will be glad to see you so soon."
They ascended the stairs and traveled the length of a long hallway leading toward the rear of the building. At its end was a pair of doors rather more elaborately carved than the ones at the building's entrance. Silla opened one of them, just wide enough for him to pass through. "May the True God bless your evening, and let this night hold not terrors but delight." She closed it firmly behind him.
The room – one of a suite of rooms – was palatial, looking fit for the Queen herself. The sitting area was as large as a barracks, and a doorless opening let onto a balcony, through which the soft lights warming the hillside homes of the rich beckoned. It was also quite empty. Grey Worm thought Silla had been mistaken before he heard the sounds of gentle splashing from another doorway.
The next room was a bath, nearly as large as the sitting room. Its centerpiece was a rectangular pool, about ten paces by five. At its rim, Missandei sat, her sandals off and her feet stirring the water.
-0-
"Will you undress?" Milli's hands reached, tentatively, for the buckle under Theon's arm that held the front and back plates together. "Or would you rather I did it?"
She jerked. Her wrist was tight in Theon's hand; he didn't remember seizing it. He said, "What are you doing here?"
Her eyes lifted from his chest to meet his. "As you see," she said. "Whoring."
He started again. "How did you come to be here?"
Her eyes dropped back down. "My father."
My father will punish me. He'll call me a whore.
You're not a whore, he had said, then added callously, I never paid you. He released her wrist, more from shock than decision.
Milli resumed her task, drawing the leather out of its buckle, then turned to the one on the other side. "My father was a proud man, in his way. It didn't sit well with him at all, you fucking his daughter in his own bed. But your position shielded you. He took your money and gave up his cabin because he had no choice, if he wanted safe passage through the Ironborn's waters. But he watched. And when he saw me call to you from the rail, and you turned away without a word and went off with that woman, he knew you were done with his wayward daughter, and he was free to salve his wounded pride. Raise your arms, milord."
Feeling numb, Theon lifted his arms away from his sides. Milli, ignoring the hard-to-adjust shoulder straps in a manner that spoke of practice, lifted the back-and-breast armor over his head and stood it on the floor against the wall. She went on, "With your coin still tight in his fist, he gave me a clout that sent me to the deck. I lay there, too terrified to get up, while he walked around me and ranted. 'Whore' was the least of the things he called me. Every once in a while, he'd give me a kick in the arse or the hip to drive his words home. But he never struck my face, or somewhere that might cripple me – I should have wondered about that, but I was too grateful then to think on it. After a while, it was over, and he turned and walked off. It was the last time he spoke to me. A month later, trade took the ship to Meereen, and here he sold me." Her fingers went to the laces of his britches.
"Don't," he said, turning part away. But he didn't back away, or reach for his armor.
"Do I displease? Will you demand your money back?"
"Stop," he said quietly. "I'm sorry." It seemed so paltry a thing to say, but he didn't know what else to tell her. "I was cruel to you. And a fool."
A dimple lifted the corner of her mouth. "Every whore has a sad story to tell, milord. It's good for a tip sometimes. Truth, being sold was the best thing that could have happened. I live better here than aboard ship, even when its captain still called me his daughter. If he had kept me, I'm sure my father would have killed me by now, or married me to some drunkard seaman." She gestured toward his britches-string, as if for permission to continue.
The words came out low and flat. "You won't find anything down there. Didn't they tell you?"
She hesitated. "Everyone has seen the raiders' fleet lying quiet at anchor in the harbor, and we know what it means. They told me that the Queen herself had bought a night's entertainment for a great Ironborn captain, one who'd been wounded in battle and needed the sort of care one gives an Unsullied. I was honored. I still am." She went on, "How?"
"Not a battle. Betrayed by my own men," he said. "Captured. Tortured. Broken." His mouth kept going. "You were the last woman I was with." Does that give you some secret pleasure? I hope so.
She sighed and reached for his britches, deftly untying the knotted string that held them tight. But instead of spreading the flaps wide, she pulled his tunic out of them, rucking it up to his ribs. "This first."
He raised his arms high, obedient as a child, and she pulled the garment off and tossed it atop the breastplates.
"You're so thin." Her voice was almost a whisper. She circled him, and touched the scars on his back and shoulders. "Do these pain you?"
"Only when I remember how I got them." Shame rose up, like a wave big enough to swamp a ship and carry its crew away to the depths. I can't go through with this. Will she smile to see what's left of the heartless cock that used her so badly? Will she pity? Which would be worse?
Milli took his hand. "To the bed." She sat him on the edge, and began to remove his boots.
-0-
"I was afraid you might not come." Grey Worm held Missandei in his arms, both of them naked and up to their shoulders in the warm pool. Buoyed up and feeling as if he was flying, he moved about slowly as they talked, carrying her effortlessly through the water.
She splashed him. "And I thought we were past all that."
"I meant, I thought it might be hard to leave. That she would need you on this last night."
"She almost pushed me out the door," she said, smiling. "I'm sure she knows. And I think she may have plans of her own."
He paused. "Not Daario."
Missandei shook her head. "No. She doesn't change her mind, not about anything. And I don't think she'll be sharing a bed tonight. But she seemed … pushed. Or drawn, toward something. I can't find a better word."
He scoffed. "You speak more languages than there are stars in the sky, and you can't find a word?"
"Languages are made to share what one knows. No one understands her, not fully."
He nodded, and held her a little more tightly. "The ways of gods are not meant for us to fully understand, I think."
"She's not a god. She's …" Missandei's voice trailed away as she thought.
"Looking for another word?"
"There are ten thousand gods, and none," she said. "She's something else."
Grey Worm lifted her partway out of the water and kissed the spot where her shoulder joined her neck, and she inhaled sharply. "In all my life, she's the nearest thing to a god I've seen. So I'll follow her until a better one comes along."
"Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen. Bride of Fire, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Shackles. Conqueror of Yunkai and Astapor, Queen of Meereen. Beloved Mistress of the Unsullied, Great Khaleesi of the Grass Sea. Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and One True Heir to the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros." She scoffed and dipped a hand in the water, feeling the gentle current of their passage. "She's just a girl. So many ways, she's just a girl. But she is borne through life, and her path laid out before her, by forces beyond all understanding."
-0-
Daario Naharis sat on the crude wooden balcony of a favorite dockside bawdy house, a bottle of Arbor red on the wobbly table in front of him. The view was a premium one, overlooking the full and busy harbor as the sun sank into the horizon. Through the open doorway behind him, he could hear the volume of the merriment inside rising as voices were lubricated by drink and inhibitions washed away.
But out here, he was alone. The balcony was too small for more than a single table, and Daario had appropriated it none too gently, which ensured that no one would come out to try to share it. That was fine with him; he didn't feel like company.
The bottle had sat in front of him unopened for an hour. Daario didn't really feel like drinking or making merry, either, but he hadn't anything better to do, and so old habit had brought him here. He often chose this table, both for the fresh air and for convenience while drinking. He scoffed. Now I'm the Lord Commander of the City Watch, Protector of Meereen, and High Arbiter of Justice instead of a Tyroshi sellsword, I suppose I should refrain from pissing off balconies.
In the harbor, final preparations were underway. Smaller boats left the docks laden with provisions and supplies and wove among the larger vessels at anchor further out. Workmen hammered and painted, applying the finishing touches necessary to change the slavers' combined fleet into the Dragonqueen's Armada. Lamps were lit against the falling darkness, making it seem as if half the stars in the sky had fallen into the harbor. And far out in the anchorage, a three-master with a golden dragon head at the bow was getting a fancy pavilion erected on the sterncastle. That one would be hers, he supposed. Probably be sailing right out front, where her devoted subjects could see her and take courage for the coming fight.
If he stood and turned toward the door leading inside, he knew, he would be able to see the top of the Great Pyramid over the tavern's roof. He stayed firmly in his seat, looking out to sea. He didn't want to know if the lamps were lit inside her chambers. He didn't want to find himself searching the windows and balcony for a sign of her.
She dismissed me like a servant, without even a tear. I told her she had to be a butcher to rule, but I never dreamed it would be my heart she was carving on someday.
What's it like, loving a woman you know will never love you back? Daario scoffed and gripped the neck of his unopened bottle. He had asked that question of Mormont, while the two of them were searching for her after the dragon had borne her away from the fighting pit. He'd been so sure of her then, so sure of his place with her. The question had been intended as a warning to the old man, telling him that he had no chance, that Daario already had her heart.
The old knight had seemed to mull it over, then had said simply, "It's hard." How many answers had he cast aside before choosing that one? He had known Daenerys before she was a queen, possibly when she was still a child in Westeros. He had watched her take her first hesitant steps on the path to the Iron Throne, seen her stride lengthen as her power and confidence waxed. How many stragglers had failed to keep up and been left behind, as she grew from a lost little girl into the Dragon Queen? Is that why he seemed to choose his words so carefully? Because he knew this day would come for me?
"Yes," he murmured. "It's hard."
A quiet voice came from the darkness of the open doorway, muffled by the racket inside. "Are you waiting for someone to share that bottle with?" A woman's voice.
"No," he said without turning. "Go away."
"Tired of women, Daario Naharis?" She came through the doorway onto the balcony, boot heels thumping softly on the planks, and sat across from him, making combs of her spread fingers to drape her silver-blonde hair across her shoulders like a mantle. "That's perfect, really."
Daario stared, and his lips parted to let out a long soft breath. Gods. Of all the things I don't need right now, I don't need this most of all.