The priest came for Arya at dawn.
"Who are you?" he asked, as he had many times before.
"No one," she replied. Her face displayed no emotion, but inwardly she was relieved. It had been weeks since the last time the Faceless Men had asked her to kill someone. She had begun to think they were displeased with her.
"We have a face for you."
"I am prepared to serve." The standard response came easily to her now. If the kindly man knew it was still a lie, he gave no sign of it.
He took her to the sanctum deep below the temple where no wind stirred, to the room of faces that belonged to everyone and no one. It took the priest a long while to select one for her, much longer than usual, and she quickly grew impatient.
"How shall I look?" she asked.
He ignored her. Finally he pulled a face down from the wall, that of a girl a few years older than her with copper skin and dark eyes. Arya closed her own eyes and waited, fidgeting, as the new face was pulled down over her own. She shivered slightly as the new flesh merged with the old.
"Not Dothraki," the priest murmured, examining his handiwork. "But close. One of the coastal villages, perhaps. Enough to be reminiscent." He allowed her to look, then, in the shadowed reflection of black stone. Her new mask was not beautiful in the traditional sense – the eyes were too narrow, the cheekbones too high for that. But it certainly would attract stares. It was not a mask to hide in.
"Which man is to receive the gift?'
She didn't expect him to answer. He never did, until it was nearly time. The servants of the God of Many Faces did not need to know things. Their duty was to obey. This time, for some reason, was different.
"No," he said. "Not a man. A woman."
Interesting. It made no difference to her, of course. Queen Cersei's name was on the list she chanted every morning along with the rest of her enemies. But the priests had never assigned her to a woman before.
"Her name is Daenerys."
For the fourteenth night in a row since retaking Meereen, Daenerys lay in her bed unable to sleep. She should have expected it. If there was anything Hizdahr's treachery had taught her, it was that she could trust no one but herself. During the day this was easy enough. Returning to Meereen on the back of a compliant dragon, flanked by her new khalasar of fifty thousand men, had all but eliminated the dissent she'd struggled with so long before. The people of Meereen loved her, and her path was clear. What more could she possibly desire?
Lying awake at night, alone in her bed, that question answered itself.
She missed Irri and Jhiqui terribly, and Missandei even more. Since Doreah's death the three girls had been the only ones who she felt truly comfortable with, the only ones around whom the queen's mask could slip, just for a second. Irri had been killed by Hizdahr's guardsmen when she tried to stop them attacking Viserion, executed without a second thought. Believing her khaleesi dead, Jhiqui had fled the city. Dany had set the Shavepate's men to find her, but so far they had nothing. No one knew what had happened to Missandei. In the confusion following her dragonflight, no one had been looking for a child.
The newest addition to some Pentoshi slaver's hold, she thought sadly. That is, if you haven't floated out to sea. I'm so sorry, dear heart.
Daario. Not for the first time, she considered summoning the sellsword to her. It would take him no more than a couple days to arrive, if she insisted. And she knew how to insist.
But no. She would not think of Daario. That chapter of her life was over. All he'd ever wanted to do was fuck, anyway; as pleasant as that was sometimes, what she really longed for was a conversation. One that didn't end in the other party prostrating themselves, or begging for something she could not give.
The night went on, and still she did not sleep.
The next day she was tired and irritable, and took her frustrations out on Skahaz, throwing a gilded vase at his head when he tried to bring in another group of supplicants. Even Selmy was on his toes around her.
"The new maid is not to Your Grace's liking?" he asked over dinner.
That was an understatement. Dany had had the girl demoted to the kitchens after she'd nearly set the queen's hair on fire knocking over a candle. Nevertheless, Dany took a deep breath before answering. It was not ser Barristan who deserved her anger.
"She was… unsuitable."
Selmy nodded. "I've taken the liberty of searching for a suitable replacement, my queen. Although no one can truly replace your Dothraki handmaids, of course. I believe I've found one that might satisfy. She comes very highly recommended, all the way from Braavos."
Dany raised an eyebrow. She couldn't imagine why the aging knight had gone to so much effort. Although I suppose he doesn't have anything better to do in Meereen. She put the matter out of her mind.
"Do what you think fit, ser. I have more important things to worry about."
His gaze hardened. "Westeros. At last?"
That would be what he assumed she meant. Why couldn't any of them see that she could not just abandon the Free Cities? It would make her worse than the Usurper, to leave these people to the slavers.
"When I make a decision you will be the first to know, ser. Now leave me."
When she was alone again, Dany closed her eyes and listened to the remembered hoofbeats that rumbled through her head, ignoring the lavish meal growing cold on the table before her.