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GERION

"The thing I miss most about Westeros," he began, savouring each word. "The thing I miss most…is my family. Not Tywin of course, or Kevan for that matter, but all the rest. Genna, who used to sing to me sometimes, Tygett and his laughable rages and unquestionable bravery." He tried to imagine them as they were, back when they were all children and they were untouched by plots and schemes. "But most of all, I miss Joy. I miss my daughter, who would often sit up late with me as I read her the tales of Valyria….by now she is a woman grown, most likely has children of her own…"

If the woman lying in his arms had any opinion on his babbling, she gave no indication. Yet her brown eyes watched him sleepily, glued to his face, as if it was crafted from gold. He wasn't entirely sure of her name, and in truth spoke little of her dialect, but he made himself understood well enough with a few gentle kisses here and insistent touches there. And aren't I glad that I did? It's been too damned long since I felt a woman pressed against me.

"The bonfires along the beaches," he said again, caught up in the sound of his own voice. "Those were grand affairs, when we were young all the little lions went out at night and congregated. The warmth of the fire, the cool sweet breeze of the sea….there are few things greater in this life than that. Those were the days."

The woman smiled at him sweetly, perhaps giving her agreement or perhaps just liking the tone of voice he used. Either way Gerion felt himself stir underneath the thin sheets and leant down to press his lips against the woman's, enjoying her taste.

The chamber doors shut with a bang like a headsman's axe, and it took all of Gerion's weary arrogance not to jump clean in the air. Council meetings had never been his favourite style of gathering, not when it had just been he and his siblings discussing their father's latest folly and not now when it was full of amoral men and killers discussing the threat of war.

Daario Naharis looked every bit the dashing rogue from his scalp to his toes, all lean muscle and heavy-jawed. His long hair, his long curved moustache, his eyebrows, all painted so brightly that he looked more peacock than man. He wore more jewels and fancy clothing than a maiden on her wedding day- golden chain necklace around his neck, a sky blue tunic of some Tyroshi make, bracelets at his thick wrists and fistfuls of rings on his fingers. His greed and self-love on full display.

When it came to hatred, the Shavepate was a bottomless supply. Despite having several of his hated foes imprisoned and killed, and despite his ascension he still seemed angry at the world, as if everything about him was giving him an ugly stare that he felt obligated to return tenfold.

Grey Worm was a very different prospect. His smooth, stony face was a fortress of unmovable determination that you could've blunted an axe on. The years of abuse and suffering had stamped out any form of desire or lesser emotion and left only the basic outline of a man. This is a trustworthy creature. His training has robbed him of any greater ambition and even if he had any, he is devoted to Daenerys like a hound to its master, more so even.

Then there was the head of the council, the Queen of Meereen and Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Targaryen herself. In the midst of dim room of scowls and sneers her face burned like the sun, incandescent. She sat on her chair, her full lips pursed into a frown. Ser Barristan Selmy stood in the gloom at her shoulder. The Lord Commander of her Queensguard, and chief advisor, stuck to his master tight as her shadow. Two of his young knights lurked behind, armour, and shield-rims, and drawn swords all agleam, others flanked the doors.

"What is the latest report?" the Queen asked in her gentle voice.

Daario played with the ends of his moustache and grinned over at his queen lazily. "Around a thousand left the city last night, fleeing like whipped dogs now that they know that their master is dead."

"There are still malcontents inside the city walls," grumbled the Shavepate, "There is talk of violence and my Brazen Beasts are limited in what they can do. We must needs take action against them."

Gerion tapped his hands alongside the tabletop, considering. "Where's Relequo?" he had found that he missed his pet sellsword's demure presence of late.

"The Silent Sphinxes have been sent to the Lhazareen," said Daenerys. "We were never able to form an alliance with them, and now that the Sons of the Harpy are in retreat, I thought it prudent to send them."

"Gerion didn't seem particularly eager to go in his stead." Daario flashed his golden tooth, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

"Mores the pity, but I have more skills here at court than out spreading the good word." Gerion made himself smile and took a hopeful glance around the room but no allies had made themselves known and he ended up looking down at his cup of wine. "What of the Unsullied on the outer walls?"

"There have been no more attacks," affirmed Grey Worm. "This one has made sure that every position is manned and well protected."

Daario snorted. "I'd be surprised if there's a man brave or stupid enough to try and attack the city now."

Gerion had a sharp retort ready, but the sound of Rhaego's whispering laughter coming up from the dark corner of the room chased all the mirth out of him. The big man pushed himself to his feet from the stony ground and slowly lumbered over to table. Gerion watched him all the way, feeling like a shepherd watching a storm-cloud blow in.

He looked at Gerion, and Grey Worm, and Daario too, half his face wrapped in loose bandages and his great silver mane hanging free around his shoulders. His one lilac eye burned with something dark and savage.

"You'd be surprised how stupid and brave men can be," he said in his whispery croak. "Better to have swords at the ready and not need them than not have swords when you do need them."

Daario gave a smile, but it was clear he didn't agree. The two held their gaze for a moment before the big man settled himself into a chair beside Gerion, giving him a grin as if the two of them were in on some secret joke.

"There is rumour of discontent in Yunkai," growled the Shavepate, as if the Yunkishmen sought to rebel solely to ruin his day. "They scream for Your Magnificent's blood and the blood of our people. Mayhaps this is all chest-puffing, but mayhaps it is a genuine threat of war."

"What of the freedmen?" The Queen asked, looking at them all anxiously. "I have not heard of any recent attacks on them."

Gerion nodded. "Indeed, it seems that aside from the few fanatics who refuse to change, the rest of the city is breathing much, much easier now that the Harpy and her sons have been driven from the city."

Queen Daenerys seemed to visibly relax at that, before regaining her regal composure. "Good, that is good. Now that we have that matter under control I have something else to inform my lords; we received a messenger from Dorne," the Queen took a moment. "They seek to an alliance."

"They would risk openly defying the Lannisters?" Ser Barristan could not help himself.

"The Seven Kingdoms are in shambles," Gerion reminded him, trying his best to not think of where Joy would be in all the chaos. "They're too busy fighting the Greyjoys and Baratheons to pay much attention to the Dornish, and I understand Doran Martell is on his deathbed, in which case this makes the matter all the more intriguing."

Daenerys stared off for a moment, deep in thought. "My brother always said that the Martells would gladly rally to his side…"

"Aye," grunted Barristan. "There are many ties between Targaryen and Martell, both in blood and marriage. Doubtless they have not forgotten the death of Princess Elia either."

The Shavepate turned his head and spat. "Everything costs something, what do these foreigners want from us?"

Daenerys looked unsure. "I suppose we'll find out when their ambassador arrives."

It was a rare day of cool weather in the city of Meereen. The air was crisp and cold, the sky was perfectly blue and the Dornishmen were due to arrive shortly. The ragged rooflines, the dirty windows, the peeling doorways were all thick with onlookers, waiting eagerly for the children of Dorne and the warrior queen Nymeria to appear. They trickled down both gutters of the wide avenue below, a multi-coloured confusion, pressing up against the grim grey lines of Unsullied deployed to hold them back. The noise of the crowd was a weight on the air. Thousands of murmuring voices, stabbed through here and there by the shouts of onlookers, bellowed warnings, squeals of excitement. Like the sound of an army before a battle, nervously waiting for the blood to start spilling.

Three more dots, perched on the roof of an old brothel, were nothing to remark upon. Rhaego stared down, big hands dangling over the parapet. Daario had his boot propped carelessly on the cracked stonework, playing with his moustache. The fact that Relequo and his sellsword were away on other business gave Gerion scant confidence. A sellsword was loyal only to his own purse now that he was gone the Lannister had to rely on those who were interested in things beyond gold, which, in his opinion, usually led to unnecessary violence. He sucked in a long, bitter breath, licked his teeth and spat down into the crowd below.

"That's a lot of people down there," said Rhaego. "A lot of people."

"This is nothing." Daario dismissed half of Meereen with an airy wave. "You should have seen the throng that packed the streets of Lys after the Stormcrows drove out Myrish! They filled the air with falling flowers!"

Rhaego grunted his disinterest and continued to stare down at the crowd.

"Here they are!" Gerion shielded his eyes with one and hand, leaning out dangerously far over the railing. The noise of the crowd swelled as the procession came into view. Some twenty riders came forth then, forming a protective shell around three men whom he assumed where the ambassadors. One sat tall on his dornish red, a mountain of freckled muscle and shiny bald head, though he grinned happily and waved at the people. Beside him sat a blonde man, smirking at anything and everything that crossed his path. Finally, in the middle sat a rather ordinary looking man with olive skin and dull brown hair. He'd look absolutely unremarkable anywhere else but Gerion knew by the shape of his face and the familiar uneasy frown on his face that this man was the son of Doran Martell.

Daario sneered down at the riders. "He doesn't look like much."

"Few of us do," replied Rhaego without much emotion, his one eye fixed on the tiny figure.

"People prefer leaders who look great," insisted Naharis.

A sudden shriek split down over the chatter. "Foreigners! Scum! Long live the Harpy! Long live Grazdan!" some limbs flailed down in the crowd below, a mob trying to break through the cordon of Unsullied. A couple of the dornish knights drew steel and hurried their way along, their charges kept behind a circle of steel and horseflesh, all the while the crowd began to tear itself apart with a violent madness and the cheering turned to screams.

Fires began to spread around and the Unsullied quickly went about trying to maintain order as dozens were tramped, torn to pieces or impaled upon the wall of spears. Madness and blood descended upon them.

"And so our work begins," sighed Gerion, pushing himself from the railing and making for the door that led to the stairs and chaos in the streets

RHAEGO

Rhaego wasn't himself, or rather he wasn't the same. The pain had turned him mad, or the eye they'd left him wasn't working right, or his mind was broken from all the milk of the poppy he'd been guzzling down on the past few days. Whatever the reason, it seemed like he was in hell. And he liked it.

The long hall leading out to the street pulsed, glowed, swam like a rippling pool of fire and death. Sunlight burned through the windows, stabbing and flashing at him through a hundred glittering squares of glass. The statues shone, smiled, sweated, and cheered him on. He had one less eye but he saw things clearer now. The pain had swept away all his doubts, his fears, his questions, his choices. It all seemed like weakness, and lies, and a waste of his effort. He used to think that life was complicated, that the court and the people and the Gods were a twisted maze, but the truth was that they were all beautifully simple. His axe had all the answers he would ever need.

Its blade caught the sunlight and left a great white, fizzing smear, hacked into a man's arm sending black streaks flying, cloth flapping, flesh torn, bone splintered. A spear twisted past Rhaego's face and he could taste the roar in his mouth, sweet as he swung the axe again. It crashed into a man's chest, sent the body flailing into a nearby window, send glittering shards of glass everywhere. He spotted a downed Unsullied and tore the shield from the dying eunuch's grip.

The world was turned inside out, like the glistening innards of the man he'd gutted a few moments before. He used to get tired when he fought, now he got stronger. The rage boiled up in him, leaked out of him, set his skin on fire. With every blow he struck it got worse, better, muscles burning until he had to scream it out, laugh it out.

He smashed a sword away with his new shield, tore it from the hand, was on the soldier behind it, arms around him. He roared as he ran, ran, legs pounding, rammed him into one of the statues, sent it over, crashing into another, and another beyond that, breaking apart into chunks in a cloud of dust.

The rioter groaned, sprawling in the ruins, tried to roll over. Rhaego's axe stoved the top of the makeshift helm he was wearing , drove the metal rim right don over his eyes and squashed his nose flat, blood running out from underneath.

"Die!" Rhaego bashed in the side of his helm and sent his head one way. "Die!" swung back and crumpled the other side, neck crunching. Again and again he beat down on the ruin of the man's head while a harpy statue looked on, disapproving.

"Look at me?" Rhaego smashed its head off with his axe. Then he was on top of someone, not knowing how he got there, ramming the edge of his shield into a face until it was nothing but a shapeless mess of gore. He could hear someone whispering deep into his ear, a mad, hissing, croaking voice. "I am the Great Stallion. I am Fire. I am the Dragon!"

A tall lumbering man hit Rhaego in the side. As they fell Rhaego clutched hold of him, dragged him into an ungainly embrace the ruined statues. Rhaego bared his teeth, raised his fist and started punching the man in the face. Up and down, up and down, his fist was a hammer and gradually the man's half-helm twisted out of shape until one side of it dug into the man's face. To Rhaego it seemed even better than a blade and with every crunch he hammered down it bent further into the man's face. All the complexities of the world, all the intrigue and betrayal meant nothing now, there was only the incredible release of violence. He was laughing as he pounded his knuckles into the man's bloody chin. Finally he felt the man go limp and rose to his feet.

The hall was strewn with fallen men and fallen statues, scattered with bits of both. "You." Rhaego pointed his bloody axe at the last of them, cringing at the far end of the hallway near the door to the streets. "I see you there. No one gets away from the dragon." With a maddening laugh he chased after the man into the orgy of death out in the streets. Screaming with joy.

Metal screamed, wood and flesh burst apart, blood roaring and men roaring Gerion's ears. He twisted himself sideways, missed a spear-thrust, crashed on, blade rattling off wood, turning him, went into someone shield-first with a bone-jarring crunch and sent him backwards, sliding down a couple of steps in a nearby doorway.

He saw a man wearing crudely-made armour with an ugly Harpy painted across the chest. His sword went up quick but Daario was quicker, arm snaking out and ramming the pommel of his arakh into the man's mouth, snapping his head back and sending him toppling. But Gerion had other worries, crushed against a snarling cave of a face, sour breath blasting him. Dragging at his snagged sword, he tried to get space to swing. He pushed with his armoured shoulder and drove the man stumbling over the very same steps Gerion had tripped up on earlier.

Gerion chopped, his elbow caught on the shaft of a spear, tangled with it, his sword just tapped someone with the flat, little more than a friendly pat on the shoulder.

Rhaego was in the midst of it all, his axe making blurred circles, scattering men squealing. Someone got in the way, and he fell in half. His arm flew in the air, body turning over and around, legs toppling. The large, heavy blade pinged, spots of blood showering off it. Gerion gasped as they pit-pattered on his face, hacked away at a shield, teeth squeezed together so hard that it seemed they'd crack. He saw a weapon black against the bright sky, caught it on his own as it came down. Blades crashing, scraping, he found himself grunting in someone's face. Staggering around off balance on the street, he had to lean against the wall of a nearby building to keep afoot.

Clash and clatter, scrape and rattle, scream and hiss, thump, crack, men swearing and bellowing like animals at the slaughter. Gerion could hardly make sense of any of it, and wondered briefly why Tygett loved it so much. He thought he heard Rhaego's voice, roaring in High Valyrian from the crowd of death. Something hit him in the eyes, and he lurched back, whipping at it madly, unsure if it was mud or blood or shit.

Suddenly there was a cry of triumph and when Gerion regained his sight he managed to see a blurring shape of several soldiers on horseback cutting their way through the mass, led by a white wraith. After a moment he realised that the wraith was none other than Ser Barristan, leading a collection of his young knights and the Shavepate's Brazen Beasts.

It seemed once they saw the mounted warriors that the piss-pot rebels lost all stomach for battle and dropped their arms where they stood and ran as far away as fast as their legs could take them in their rusty metal plates. Gerion glanced down at the dead, surprised to see how weak and small they seemed. More than one of them had used an old pot as a makeshift helm, several of them held only butchers knifes and whatever else they could get their hands on. What drives such men to try and take on an armed force?

One of the men yet lived, crawling away and leaving a long bloody smear in his wake, like some horrific snail. Rhaego walked up and split his head with the back of his axe. Not that hard, but hard enough to make an end of it. Someone was still screaming, somewhere, though that may have just been Gerion's head pounding away. He blinked around, trying to make sense of things.

Gerion was sticky with sweat, scratchy, burning hot. His jaw and face were throbbing, his mouth full of blood from where he had bitten his own tongue. The hot glow of battle was fading fast, his aching legs shaky as a newborn foal. He dropped down on his knees in the middle of the street.

Rhaego was walking slowly over from one of the alleyways. He barely even glanced at the corpses as he passed. "None left?"

"Aye," Gerion's fingers were so tight around the hilt of his sword he could hardly remember to make them unclench. He took a long shuddering breath and looked up at Rhaego. "You alright?"

"I don't know what I am."

"Are you hurt, is what I'm asking?"

He touched one hand to his bandaged eye. "No worse than before."

Gerion gave a tired nod and tried to regain his footing, almost toppled over until he found himself being steadied by mailed fist. Ser Barristan gave him a sympathetic nod and helped him stand, looking suddenly very weary himself. "Come Ser, Her Grace wishes for us to be there when she greets her Dornish guests."

From nowhere came Daario Naharis, strolling as if he was in the middle of a harem and not the scene of bloody violence. "I think we earned ourselves a good night of debauchery; we've finally put an end to this."

Rhaego's grin grew wide. "Oh I don't think we're done," he pointed down the street towards the fleeing rioters. "About half of them yet live, and I highly doubt they'll just turn their backs on the cause." He gestured over towards the city walls on the horizon. "The Yunkishmen are keen for blood as well, and they'll be bringing an army of slavers and sellswords with them." Rhaego put his big hands around Daario and Gerion and drew them close, fingers squeezing at their shoulders. "We're just getting started."