Jaime Lannister tilted his head back and sighed deeply. This, he was firmly convinced, was the life.

It was a bright summer's day on the western frontier of the Kingdom of Myr, the breeze off the sea thirty miles distant was keeping the worst of the heat off, and he was the captain-lieutenant of the second cavalry company of the Royal Army of the Kingdom of Myr; which was another way of saying that he commanded fifty of the finest lances in the finest army in the world.

Strictly speaking, of course, his birth entitled him to more, especially since his seven hundred Westerlanders were one of the largest single contingents of Westerosi remaining to the Kingdom of Myr after the Northmen, but he didn't make any bones about it. For one thing, he was aware that the Blackfish still regarded him with a jaundiced eye due to the ambush he had suffered in Pentos, and the disapproval of Ser Brynden Tully was a fearsome thing. For another, he knew that Ned Stark and King Robert viewed him as a potential sword of the kingdom; his captain-lieutenancy was meant to provide him an apprenticeship under Ser Lyn Corbray, who whatever his other faults was an excellent cavalryman, before taking command of his own company.

How long he would enjoy a full captaincy, of course, was open to debate. Strictly speaking his exile had only four years left to run, and his father would be counting the days until his return and his assumption of the heirship to Casterly Rock. The fact that he didn't particularly want to sit in the great hall of the Rock and dispense justice, or preside at tourneys without getting to break a lance himself, or haggle with his bannermen and the burghers of Lannisport, would not enter into the old man's calculations. He was his heir, he could hear his father saying in that grimly final voice of his, and he would inherit the Lordship of Casterly Rock. It was his duty as a Lannister to uphold the family name.

His father, Jaime reflected as he and his men rode down into the shallow valley, had clearly never been young and strong and commanding a half-company of lances on a long patrol along a hostile border. Alright, a potentially hostile border; the Kingdom of Myr was at peace with Tyrosh for the moment. On the other hand, if the Tyroshi chose today to break the Peace of Pentos and began the festivities by ambushing and wiping out a cavalry patrol along the border . . . well, the knowledge that your king would avenge you wouldn't be of much use to your corpse. All the more reason to act as if you were actually at war, and take the appropriate safeguards.

One of which was riding back down the slope towards him, one of the dozen scouts who made up the vanguard of the patrol. Reaching the bottom in a spray of dirt, he trotted up to Jaime and clapped a fist to his breastplate in salute. "Sir, on the next ridge over there is a party of people on foot," he reported. "They appear to be men, for the most part, with a few women, and are in some haste."

"Any armor or weapons?" Jaime asked; weapons might be easily explained, but armor far less so for people evidently intent on crossing the border, which lay along the line of the small river in the next valley over. Armor meant soldiers.

"Only farm implements that we could see, sir," the scout replied. "Hoes and billhooks for the most part. No armor that we could see."

Jaime nodded. "Probably runaway slaves, then," he mused. The Tyroshi border country had been hit hard by the Great Raid, but Corbray hadn't been able to burn out all of the Tyroshi border estates. Those outside his line of march had survived, if they had been able to keep their slaves from rebelling. And even those estates that had been burned out had mostly been reclaimed, either by relatives seeking to restore the family fortunes or by adventurers gambling that peace would allow them to reclaim the rich lands of the borders and leverage them into a ticket into the ranks of the magisters. There had been a steady trickle of runaway slaves since, running the gauntlet of cavalry patrols doing much the same thing he was doing, with the added task of keeping the slaves in line. He turned to Ser Addam Marbrand, who was his second-in-command for this patrol. "Up the ridge, but not over the top yet," he said. "Don't want to spook them into dithering and getting caught on the wrong side of the border."

Addam nodded. "Archers and valets to dismount at the top of the ridge?" he asked.

"No, let's keep everyone mounted for now," Jaime said. "If they're not being pursued after all then there's no point to the men jumping off and on. And if they are being pursued, men on horseback are more intimidating than men on foot, for the most part." Addam nodded agreement; that last was why the City Watch of Lannisport maintained a hundred mounted men, in order to help manage crowds.

Jaime raised his hand and pumped it up and down twice. "Forward at the trot," he called, pitching his voice to reach the rest of the patrol but not carry too far. "Stop just under the ridgeline."

All down the column the spurs went back and the horses spurted forward, nickering in mild remonstrance. The slope was gentle enough, but no one, man or beast, actually likes to run uphill. Upon reaching the ridgeline, Jaime swung down from his horse, handed it off to Harlos, his page, took his far-eye from him with a nod, and poked his head over the top of the ridge to see the people his scouts had mentioned splashing across the small river that marked the border; it was more of a stream really, but it was still one of the larger watercourses in this part of the Disputed Lands. He also saw the party of cavalry under Tyroshi colors that was cresting the far ridgeline. He smirked mirthlessly; he could just imagine the Tyroshi commander's frustration. Here he was, having chased these runaways for gods knew how long, and they had managed to get free and clear through his very fingers. For the terms of the Peace of Pentos were clear; any slave who made it onto Myrish soil of their own free will was then, thenceforth, and forever free. Free soil makes a man free, as the saying had become. Of course, whether or not the slaver cities respected that was up to them, and more specifically to their soldiers and agents along the border.

"Come on," Jaime said under his breath, his eye pressed to the lens of his far-eye. "Just let them go, already. They're over the border, there's nothing you can do about it, it's been days since you put your feet up with a decent bottle . . ." Across the valley the Tyroshi captain, easily identifiable by the plumes in his burgonet, waved his arm and his company started down the slope. "Damn," Jaime said softly, striding back to his horse and remounting. "Helmets and lances, gentlemen!" he called as he handed his far-eye to Harlos. His knights and men-at-arms had been riding in almost all their armor, but no one put on their helmets until they had to; wearing several pounds of steel on your head for extended periods of time invariably lead to a splitting headache. Following his own command he took his sallet helm from Harlos, let him do up the laces under his chin, and accepted a lance. Now fully armored and ready to fight, he raised his voice again. "Knights and squires in charge order, archers, valets, and pages stand ready to dismount and support. Over the top and halfway down the slope, then halt." He turned to Addam. "Addam, get those people behind us. I don't want any lack of clarity as to our position."

Addam bared his teeth. "Yes, sir," he replied.

Jaime nodded, then turned towards Dallen, his trumpeter. "Forward at the trot, if you please, as loud as you can." As the brassy notes rang out, the half-company, now arrayed for battle, trotted over the top of the ridge and started down the opposite slope. The runaway slaves, fleeing from armored men behind them and now seeing armored men ahead of them, stopped dead with despairing cries, but Addam spurred forward with his lance, shouting in Low Valyrian for them to get moving and get behind the horses. As the half-company clattered to a halt halfway down the slope, the runaways, starting to realize that they were not to have their throats cut, dashed behind them, one pausing for a moment to point at Jaime's black cloak and battered armor before being hustled along, while across the river the Tyroshi finished reining in in some confusion.

Jaime smiled condescendingly as the Tyroshi sorted themselves out; his men had had rather more impetus behind them thanks to their heavier equipment and they had still managed to keep their alignment both on the move and in the process of halting. Eventually the Tyroshi captain spurred forward, raising his empty hand in token of parley. Jaime turned to Harlos, who had kept at his right hand like a good page. "Tell Ser Addam that he has command until I return from the parley," he said, handing over his lance. At Harlos' nod he walked his horse the rest of the way down the slope, mimicking the Tyroshi captain's gesture as he went, until they met in the middle of the river; there was a ford here, which was part of why Jaime's half-company had been in the area.

"Jaqenno Hotiris," said the Tyroshi, who judging by his accent and his almost womanishly beautiful features was in fact a Lyseni, "captain-lieutenant, red banda of the Ragged Standard, Army of Tyrosh. I believe you have a few things of ours."

"Ser Jaime Lannister, captain-lieutenant, second cavalry company of the Royal Army of Myr," Jaime replied, raising his visor. "And no, we don't. See, they're not yours anymore."

Jaqenno frowned. "Are they not? They are slaves of the magister Donesso Hestaar that do not have his leave to be absent from the estate where they work. We have been trailing them for three days now and have yet to find their collars, so we assume they are still wearing them. That makes them runaway slaves, and ours."

"They're on our side of the border, that makes them free and ours," Jaime retorted. "According to the Peace of Pentos anyway, which unless I am mistaken, this Hestaar signed himself on behalf of the Archon."

Jaqenno waved his gauntleted hand. "A technicality that we can surely agree to overlook," he said. "Surely you would not condemn me, a fellow man of arms, to return empty-handed and ashamed by failure?"

"I most certainly would, in order to keep innocent people from being forced back into slavery," Jaime said, sitting back in his saddle. "Surely you would not force me to be ashamed before my men and my king?"

Jaqenno shrugged, no mean feat in armor. "Not willingly," he admitted, "but I am, as they say, a man under authority."

"So am I," Jaime replied. "Of course, if you want to try and take them back by force then I am willing to accept the challenge, and let the Warrior decide."

Jaqenno cast a pawky glance up at Jaime's half-company, almost two hundred and fifty men in full or half-armor, and another back at his own men, almost precisely half that number in lighter armor. "You are pleased to make game of me," he said drily, "but I must decline. Duty prevents me from wasting the lives of my men in a contest I am doomed to lose."

Jaime nodded. "Some other time, perhaps?" he suggested.

"We shall see," Jaqenno replied. "All things are in the hands of the gods." He bowed shortly in the saddle. "The sele of the day to you, ser."

"And to you," Jaime said courteously, noting with some admiration how good Jaqenno's control was. If he had been bearded by a boy several years his junior he would have been furious. Reining his horse around, he cantered back up the slope, gesturing for the half-company to turn about and ride back over the ridge. As he resumed his place in the column, he passed by the new freedmen, who seemed to have realized that they were to be free after all. A few were dancing as they walked, one or two were weeping openly, and a few had their hands raised in prayer and were noisily calling down the blessings of various gods. One brawny fellow with the arms and shoulders of a blacksmith, spying Jaime, raised his folded hands in salute.

"Black Lion!" he shouted in thickly accented Low Valyrian. "Black Lion and freedom!" As the other freedmen took up the shout Jaime raised a hand in acknowledgement, smiling broadly as he did so. He had first heard men cheer his father at the age of five, during some celebration or other. But he had never heard his father cheered as the freedmen were cheering him now.

XXX

As the door to his private chambers creaked open, the pirate-lord all but leaped to his feet, a genuine smile lighting up his face as he raised his arms. "Davos, my old," he cried genially, striding forward to meet his guest. "It has been too long, far too long."

"You always were a flatterer, Salladhor," Davos replied, meeting the pirate-lord's embrace with one of his own. "It's only been five months since our paths crossed."

"Ah, but between friends, the pain of separation is increased by the love they bear for each other." Salladhor said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Do you not find it so with your wife?"

Davos waggled his eyebrows. "Why do you think we have four sons?" he asked rhetorically, provoking a belly-laugh from his host. They made for an odd pair, the pirate-lord and the smuggler, sharing only their slender builds and the wrinkles common to every seaman the world over. Salladhor Saan was almost compulsively flamboyant, as seen by the fact that on an evening when he was not holding court among his crew or officially receiving guests he was wearing an exquisitely tailored suit of crimson velvet intricately embroidered with gold thread. By contrast, Davos's trews, shirt, tunic, and mantle were all of the sort you might find on a minor tradesman who was making ends meet with not much to spare, being simply and sturdily made out of unadorned broadcloth. Where Salladhor was handsome, graceful, suave, and courtly in his manners, Davos was as plain of face as he was of speech and habitually walked with the rolling gait of a lifelong sailor. Even the room they were standing in highlighted the differences between them. Davos' cabin on the Shadow was spare and very plainly furnished, but Salladhor's private study was almost the perfect definition of a rich pirate's lair. The hide of a great snow bear served as a rug, the walls were hung with Myrish tapestries, the desk was a massive specimen of its kind liberally bedecked with Qohorik carvings, and the quill with which Salladhor had been writing had originally graced the wing of a Sothoryan parrot.

Yet despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, Salladhor and Davos were not simply business partners, but good friends. As proved when Salladhor gestured at his butler, who had continued to stand in the doorway. "Bring wine and food, man!" he cried. "And girls, too! Only the best for my friend!" He cocked an eyebrow at Davos. "You still prefer girls, yes?"

"I do, but I'm afraid that I'm here on business, not pleasure," Davos replied regretfully. "And it's the sort of business that cannot be discussed where other ears can hear it."

Salladhor searched Davos' face for a moment, and then turned back to his butler. "Leave us," he commanded, suddenly serious. "And let none disturb us until we call." As the butler bowed away and closed the door after himself, Davos and Salladhor sat down on a pair of richly upholstered chairs that Salladhor had taken from a Volantene pleasure barge. "Is it that you have found a score that you need help mastering, my friend?" Salladhor asked. "Speak, and we shall find a way to make it possible."

"I have a score all right," Davos answered, "but it's one of the easiest I've ever come across. My employer handed it to me himself."

Salladhor's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. "Employer?" he asked delicately.

Davos nodded. "I am instructed to convey to you the warm regards and great esteem of His Grace King Robert of Myr."

Salladhor nodded back. "Ah, so," he said wonderingly. "Sits the wind in that corner, then, my old?"

"It does," Davos replied, reaching into a pocket of his tunic. "If I had my way, I'd have stayed out of it, and if Ironmaker had lived he might have let me, but Victarion Greyjoy insisted on introducing me to King Robert. And let me tell you, my friend, when an Ironborn captain half again your size puts his hand on your shoulder and says he will introduce you to his king, you get introduced to his king." As Salladhor chuckled at the mental image thus invoked, Davos drew out a scroll. "I was also instructed to convey this to you," he went on, handing it over. "A King's Commission, declaring you and your ships to be a detached auxiliary squadron of the Royal Fleet of Myr."

Salladhor shook his head pityingly as he accepted the scroll. "Davos, my old, you of all people should know that I have sworn to be no man's servant, while I can yet sail a ship and swing a sword."

"Less a servant and more an ally, in this case," Davos said, nodding to acknowledge the point. "In the event of war against Lys or Tyrosh, or both, you would be requested to do all in your power to harm their shipping and their commerce. You and your ships would be able to reprovision in Myrish ports, call on other ships of the Royal Fleet for aid, and keep all the legitimate plunder you take."

Salladhor raised an eyebrow. "Is it to be war, then?" he asked.

Davos spread his hands. "My friend, you know as well as I that the Peace of Pentos is no more meant to be a permanent peace than it is meant to turn lead into gold. The insults and the wounds there go too deep for any piece of paper to heal, much less one that King Robert was all but forced into signing. He wears the coins that Donesso and Brachio gave him in reparation on a chain around his neck, you know, to remind himself of the insult they offered to him."

Salladhor nodded. "And in return for my aid, Robert requires what?"

"Only that you free every slave you currently hold," Davos replied, "and transport any slaves you take from the enemy to Myr for emancipation."

Salladhor tapped the scroll against his chin for a moment, then tossed it on the small table between them and stood. "Come, my friend, and read a chart with me," he invited, going over to his desk and pulling a chart from a nearby rack. As Davos joined him he unrolled it to show the southern Narrow Sea. "Consider my position, here, my old," he said rhetorically. "To the west I have the Seven Kingdoms, to whom I am naught but a slave-taking pirate. To the north and the northeast I have the Braavosi, who would gladly keelhaul me under my own ship before hanging my carcass from the Titan's kilt by the ankles. In Myr I have a pack of fanatics who, for the dubious benefit of their friendship, demand that I surrender a sizable percentage of my wealth and forswear any chance of recovering it. In Tyrosh and Lys, on the other hand, I have old foes who would like very much to hang me, but who may swallow their distaste when they remember the strength of my ships and the skill of my men." He spread his hands. "What is a poor corsair to do in such a situation? I ask you to set aside your prejudice against slavery, my friend, and answer dispassionately."

Davos shrugged. "I would still counsel you to ally with the Kingdom of Myr," he said. "King Robert is not a man of business, as we are, but he is a man of his word. Unlike some in Tyrosh and Lys that I could name, like that one harbormaster."

"May he rot in the deepest of your seven hells with worms gnawing his balls," Salladhor said, his mellifluous voice darkening. He and Davos had both lost a great deal of money on account of that harbormaster. "But at least the Archon and the Conclave will not demand that I beggar myself for the privilege of becoming an isolated and unsupported ally. If I declare for the Kingdom of Myr," he gestured at the chart again, "then I place myself in a ring of mortal enemies, of which at least two-thirds know these islands as intimately as you and I. Whereas if I cast my lot with Lys and Tyrosh, then I will secure my position in these islands for some time yet. Even if the Braavosi fleet sails south to sweep the seas, I much doubt that they will be able to defeat Lys, Tyrosh, and myself, all at the same time."

"They might still win, though," Davos said. "And if Lys and Tyrosh can gain a peace by throwing you to the Braavosi, you know they will. They've suffered your raids as much as the Braavosi have."

"A chance I am willing to take, knowing coves and bays that even the Braavosi do not," Salladhor said. "And if I were to cast my lot with King Robert and accept impoverishment, what would he do if the Braavosi demanded my head in return for their continued support of his treasury? He might swear an oath to me if I become his man, but he would still have an oath to his people." He shook his head. "I am not the most merciful of men, but I am merciful enough to spare a man that decision."

Davos nodded slowly. Put that way he could certainly see Salladhor's logic, even if it burned at him to admit it. "This is your final answer then?" he asked.

"It is," Salladhor replied, his face sad. "I am sorry, my old, but we must choose different roads henceforth."

Davos nodded again. "If you're ever captured," he said, "I'll testify on your behalf. I don't have much influence, but Victarion and his Ironborn owe me a debt for guiding Ironmaker's fleet to them, and Ser Gerion Lannister has acknowledged that the Crown also owes me for that."

Salladhor laughed, half in genuine amusement and half in bitterness. "Ye of little faith," he said jestingly. "Am I not Salladhor Saan, the prince of the Narrow Sea, who was dodging or slaying his pursuers before he had hair on his balls?"

"You are, but times are changing, Salladhor," Davos said earnestly. "I first felt it on Bloodstone when I stood before Ironmaker, and again when the Ironborn fought the Tyroshi fleet. There's a new wind brewing, and unless we trim our sails to ride it we'll get driven under."

Salladhor shrugged. "Then I will die as I have lived, a free sailor and no man's servant," he said simply. "In any case, if I did not make a habit of rolling the dice, I would still be a deckhand, and not the master of twenty keels with a name known from White Harbor to Astapor. I will take my chances." He extended his hand to Davos. "Will you accept my hospitality for the night at least, before sailing back to Myr?"

"Of course," Davos said, taking his old friend's hand in a firm clasp, blinking back a sudden itch in his eyes. "If this is to be our last night as friends, then let us celebrate old times before we part ways."

"Spoken like a true brother of the coast," Salladhor said, clapping Davos on the shoulder.