A/N: As always thank you everyone who reviewed

GERION

Gerion Lannister was a magnificent dancer, of course, but with his leg bleeding as much as it did it was difficult for him to truly shine. The constant buzzing of flies was a further distraction, and his partner was not helping. Joanna looked well enough, but her constant giggling was becoming quite the irritation.

"Stop that!" snapped Gerion, whirling her around the smoking ruins of Castamere, the bloody organs strewn about pulsing and wobbling in time to the music.

"Mauled by a lion," grinned Emmon Frey, his thin face somehow looking more like a weasel than before. He pointed downwards with a fork. "This is a foot."

Gerion pushed through the burning wreckage , one hand pressed over his face. The butchered corpse lay there, glistening red, scarcely recognisable as human. Joanna laughed and laughed at the sight of it. "Partially eaten!" she tittered at him. Gerion Lannister did not find the sight in any way amusing. The sound of flies was growing louder and louder, threatening to drown out the music entirely. Worse yet, it was getting terribly cold in the castle.

"Careless of me," said a familiar voice from behind.

"How do you mean?"

"Just to leave it there. I ought to have hung it high over the battlements of Casterly Rock; people would have learnt to fear House Lannister then."

"I remember this," murmured Gerion. It had grown colder yet, and he was shivering like a leaf. "I remember this!"

"Of course," whispered the voice, his brother's voice.

"I'm better than you." Gerion could feel his gorge rising. The wounds in the red meat yawned. The flies were so loud he could hardly hear the reply.

"No you're not, you're just the other one." Icy breath brushed his neck and made his back shiver. "That's why people will remember my name in a hundred years from now and why you will die as some nameless fool on the other side of the world. Perhaps before you do…..you could meet the harpy."

Jakerhro squirmed in his spot, top lip quivering, as though he could only just control his body so overpowering was his fury. His ruddy complexion and snorting breath seemed to imply that he might spring from the Great Pyramid at any moment and charge the Meereenese nobility by himself.

At his feet lay the broken corpse of a familiar Dothraki from Rhaego's horde. Gerion couldn't quite put the name on that one, but in the end he supposed it didn't matter. Having a name won't make him any less dead.

And dead he was. The horselord's moustached face has been slashed open from ear to ear and his own manhood had been shoved down the mutilated throat. He had been a tall man, with a burly look to him, mayhaps a warrior of many battles. Usually Gerion would count the number of scars a man carried to see the history of his work, but the corpse that lay before him was so red that he couldn't tell old wounds from the new.

"There was a harpy drawn on the bricks of alley they found him in," said Relequo, his eye still swollen shut from where Rhaego had struck him. "It was drawn in blood."

Gerion was starting to see a pattern by now. The Sons of the Harpy did their butchery by night, and over each kill they left their mark. "They would have had to strike in a large number to down this warrior," he gestured to the various stab wounds. "Many different blades."

Rhaego stood rigidly erect opposite him, clenched jaw-muscles bulging from the sides of his face. His murderous frown clearly demonstrated that his anger at the murderers, while no less than anyone else's, was kept under iron command. "This is the third man within a week," he growled. "Have the men travel in groups of two from now on."

Jakerhro gave a nod and left the room in a hurry to issue his Khal's orders.

"I have a feeling that this won't be the last corpse we see," Gerion remarked. "These people are hungry for Queen Daenerys' blood, and since they cannot get to her they'll take it out on her people…and yours."

Rhaego stared down at the corpse for a good long moment before tearing his gaze away and over to Gerion. "If its blood they want, then blood is what they shall get."

"That's a fine boast but you can't stab a shadow in the heart," Gerion rubbed at his stubbled chin. "The best way to win this fight is with secrets. Every man, woman and child has a secret in this city, and if we want to fight the Harpy on even terms then we must scour through every one of them."

To Gerion's surprise the hulking man gave an agreeable nod. "Aye, and you'd be the man to look."

A part of him wanted to try and deny Rhaego's request, he had been up to his neck in blood already and wanted a respite from the brutality that his life had brought him…but a bigger part of him relished the chance to be able to test his wits, unravel secrets and play the game once more. Me against a group of sadistic lunatics, what fun we shall have!

"I'll do my utmost." He replied soberly.

Rhaego gave both Gerion and Relequo a fierce glance. "Tell no one about this, you understand? Not even the Queen."

"This is the place," said Gerion.

"Aye," said Relequo. It was a rough building of one storey, carelessly built from mud bricks that were coloured red in typical Ghiscari style. Chinks of light spilled out into the night from around the ill-fitting door and the ill-fitting shutters in the single window. It was much the same as the other places in the street, if you could call it a street. It hardly looked like one of Meereen's most prestigious brothels. But then Meereen is not what it once was. Former bedslaves now sell their trade in whatever shacks they can find, even in the rougher parts of the city. The perfect place for a murder, perhaps?

The door opened before Gerion even had the chance to knock. A man stood in the doorway, old, tall and slender in rough-hewn white robes that made him appear a septon. "Why don't you come in?" The man turned, strolled down a narrow hallway, leaving the door wide open.

"Wait here," said Gerion.

"Aye."

The inside of the building was no more auspicious than the outside. Clean and orderly, and poor as hell. The ceiling was so low that Gerion could only just stand upright; the floor was hard-packed dirt. He peered through a couple of the open doors and saw small rooms with single beds made from straw mattresses, a few of the previous night's customers still soundly asleep. He caught sight of the white robes in the room at the end of the hall and cautiously entered. It was little more than a small box with two small wicker chairs. And no sign of any Harpies about…

"You could do with some more furniture." Gerion shut the door behind him on creaking hinges and lowered himself down on the chair opposite of the white robed man.

"The barely make enough to keep food on my girls' plates," explained the man, his tired eyes watching Gerion cautiously. "The Silver Queen has made things difficult."

"She gave your people freedom."

The man waved dismissively. "What is freedom to those who have never had it? Many of the slaves of this city have been in service since they were children, how are they to make a living? What are they doing with their lives now that they no longer have instruction?"

Gerion eyed him off coolly. "Whatever they would,"

"You are part of the Dragon Queen's court are you not?" he shook his head. "You are here about the dead man."

"I am," Gerion leaned forward, "what can you tell me of that night?"

The brothel owner's eyes were fixed on Gerion's, dark and cool as deep water. "It was like any other night; the horselord came in, paid for a girl, took his pleasure, and then stumbled off drunk," he shrugged. "I do not care what happened to him after that, I had his gold."

Straight to business, then. Nothing to hide? Or nothing to lose? "So it was just like that was it, in and out without taking a moment to savour the moment?"

A frown settled upon the old man's face. "He was a foolish Dothraki who came looking for a night's pleasure, he stank of that damned mares milk they all drink and wandered out into the streets unharmed. It is my hope his death was suitably painful."

Gerion felt his eyebrows lift. The very last thing I expected-an honest answer. Honest, but hardly one that frees him from suspicion. "You wished him a painful death?"

"Very painful. And I shall not weep if you were to share his fate."

Gerion smiled. "I don't know anyone who will, but the Dothraki is the matter in hand. You didn't see anyone else speaking with him before he entered, or even while he was here, a fellow customer mayhaps?"

"It is unlikely, my rooms are small, my girls fragile. I only allow them to see one customer at a time."

Lannister sucked his teeth. "Where is the girl that saw to him?"

The old man let out a sigh and eased himself up and shuffled from the room. He returned a few moments later with a young slip of a girl with olive skin and dark brown hair, head bowed. There was no outward sign of any mistreatment, but Gerion could tell by her cowed expression that she had been used to harsh treatment.

"What's your name girl?" he asked in the rough bastard Valyrian that the slavers had taken to using. No answer. Her eyes never even moved from the floor, as if she hadn't heard him. He turned to the old man for explanation.

"She is paid for her body," he informed Gerion. "If a customer wants someone to whisper to them at night then they can have another."

A mute? "Open your mouth girl."

Perhaps it had been the dangerous tone in his voice, or perhaps thought he meant to count her teeth like some horse trader, but either way the girl complied. She had a tongue intact. So the whoremaster didn't have her mutilated to keep his secrets. Without warning he reached over and gave her sharp pinch to the side, causing her to jump back but otherwise not make a sound. "Sorry, just checking."

"Satisfied?" asked the old man.

"Never, but that is all for now." He rose to his feet and slowly gave the small establishment another look before moving towards the door. "You'll be hearing from me again most like."

The old man pursed his lips, stroked his beard, and then gave a deep sigh. "I suppose the honest people of this city will never escape you Westerosi and your intrusions. But mayhaps you will find these murderers and not come back? Miracles do happen, even in Meereen."

"So I've heard," said Gerion as he opened the misshapen door and entered the dusty streets. "So I've heard." But I've never seen one.

Gerion and Relequo made their way back towards the Great Pyramid in the orange light that steals over the world before dusk. The streets thronged. Even in an Autumn year Meereen was unreasonably hot and only the earliest hours of the day offered respite.

In the lanes leading towards the centre of the city and the wide plaza ahead of it, business was buzzing. Tavern doors stood open while men bore kegs in upon their shoulders, or lowered barrels into the cellars by the street-traps. They passed a smithy open to the road so that travellers could see the hammering and quenching and be tempted to purchase what took such sweat and force to craft. A lad hunched at the forge, stirring the flames.

"Oh, to be indoors and enjoying a fine wine." Relequo's green hair was greasy with sweat and sticking to his scalp.

They had only gone a dozen steps before a cry turned them back to the blacksmith. The smith's boy was pushing himself up from the flagstones, face grazed, shaking his head, unsteady. The smith paced out from his workshop and kicked the boy hard enough to lift him off the ground. The air left his lungs with a huff.

"My money's on the big one," said Relequo mildly.

"He's a big one, all right." Gerion nodded. The smith wore just a leather apron from shoulder to knee and leggings held up with rope. The muscle in his arms gleamed. Swinging a bloody great hammer from dawn till dusk will put a lot of meat on a man.

The child lay on his back, on arm raised, too winded to groan, a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Gerion guessed him to be eight or nine.

"Do I have to kick every lesson into you?" the smith didn't yell but he had the voice of a man who had spent years speaking over an anvil. He drove his boot into the boy's head, the force rolling him once. There was blood on the smith's boot and staining the boy's hair.

"Ah, hell." Relequo shook his head as they watched the smith step closer. "I should stop this," he said, reluctance in every inch of him.

"Boys get kicked every day," said Gerion.

The smith loomed over the boy, who lay curled as if hunched against the pain. The man drew back for another kick, and then paused, reaching a decision. He lifted his boot to stamp the life out of the lad.

Gerion watched the scene play out in his head, weighing his options. None of it was his business and he had enough to deal with without taking on someone else's problems. You can save children but they will never save you. The words sounded too much like Tywin for his taste. "I suppose Queen Daenerys wouldn't want this."

"You, smith, stop!" shouted Relequo.

The man paused, his heel a few inches above the side of the boy's head. "He's a street cur," the smith said. "Too stupid to learn. I've fed him for a month and kept him under my roof. He's mine to end." He brought his heel down hard, his weight upon it.

The boy rolled clear but lacked the strength to get up. The smith roared a curse. Relequo moved passed Gerion and aimed for the smith, he hadn't even drawn his sword.

"I can repay you!" Gerion shouted. Relequo would only have his arms broken off before he even thought to reach for his blade, and Gerion had need of the sellsword yet.

That smith stopped in his tracks, Relequo too, with a sigh of relief. The smith eyed the golden on the pommel of Gerion's sword, the brilliant cut of his fine clothes, and thought perhaps that his satisfaction would be worth less than the contents of the Lannister's coin pouch.

"What's your offer?"

"A contest of your choosing. You win and I pay you this for the boy." He held out a fistful of gold dragons. "Lose and you get nothing for him." he tucked the gold away.

The smith's face set into a deep frown. The boy managed another roll and fetched up against the wall of the ship opposite.

"Perhaps you think you can hold a hot iron longer than I can?" Gerion suggested.

The from deepened into crevasses topped by the black band of his brows. "Strength," he said. "who can hold the anvil overhead the longest."

Gerion glanced over at the anvil a few yards back into the smithy. By Gerion's reckoning it probably weighed the same as two full grown men. "Rules?" he asked.

"No rules!" He laughed. He flexed an arm and muscle mounded on muscle. Ser Duncan the Tall would have been impressed. "Strength! That's the rule."

Ser Duncan may have been impressed, but any fool can build muscle. Gerion smiled thinly. "Show me how it's done, then." He walked into the smithy. The place had a pleasing smell of char and iron and sweat. It reminded Gerion of the time his father had taken him to see the gold mines.

The smith walked around the anvil. Gerion glanced at the ceiling where tools hung from the beams. He would have just enough room and the Lannister would have plenty as the other man stood a hand taller than him

Relequo stepped up behind him. Gerion gave him a single glance before turning back to the smith. "The boy's still alive, I take it? I'm not doing this for a corpse."

He could hear the frown in the sellsword's voice. "He's alive, though he might be hurt bad."

The smith crouched beside the anvil. He closed one big hand around the horn and set the heel of his other hand beneath the lip of the anvil's face.

"You've done this before." Gerion gave him a grin.

"Yes," he showed his teeth. "And I can taste your gold already, foreigner."

He tensed, building for the explosion that would drive the ironwork upward. That's when Gerion hit him with a hammer he had taken from the nearest bench. The Lannister struck the side of his head just by the eye. Funny, the noise isn't dissimilar from his boot hitting that child. The hammer came away bloody and the smith pitched forward over his anvil.

"What?" Relequo asked, as if he somehow hadn't seen it.

Gerion shrugged. "No rules, you heard him." he looked over at the cowering boy, blood smeared from where the smith had hit him, eyes wild. "You see that boy? All that muscle and he was undone by a sharper mind." He flicked a single gold dragon at the child. "Don't waste it." Though knowing my luck that was a future Son of the Harpy…

"And though I'm loath to tell Your Magnificence this, but the Great Masters of Zhak and Merreq have made preparations to quit their pyramids and leave…." The seneschal trailed off as Gerion sauntered through the door into the meeting chamber of Queen Daenerys council.

"Ser Gerion," said the queen, smiling easily and rising to her feet to greet him. "It is good to see you again."

She wore a long, loose shapeless sheet of indigo that was wrapped around her dainty frame and held together precariously. The queen had to clutch at the sheet to hold it in place as she walked over to him. "I must apologise for my attire, but it is a necessity I'm afraid."

Apologising for her appearance is like a genius apologising for his stupidity. "I wouldn't dare make assumptions about Your Grace's attire." Gerion bowed low. "I would like to help Your Grace in any way I can."

Daenerys beamed. "I am glad to have you with us. My son has often had a skill for bringing great men to his side and I would have your voice heard amongst my council as well."

"I hope I serve you well."

"We all hope you will," she said with another smile.

Gerion strolled over to the table and looked at the seneschal. " You must be Reznak Mo Reznak, the seneschal." Reznak was a small fleshy man, with not a sing hair on his head and the overwhelming scent of perfume. Some men should smell sweet, some should smell dirty, but none should smell as this one does. Even my daughter with all her bottled scents did not smell as this creature standing before me.

"A thousand greetings, good Ser Knight," said Reznak, his smile slimy and false.

Gerion gave the briefest of nods, but gave the man no reply before turning to the next. "You must be the Shavepate."

Skahaz mo Kandaq had a repugnant face with small, hateful eyes with heavy bags beneath them and long vulture nose. The man's skin was almost a shade of yellow. A vulture is what he is, a big cruel bird looking to scratch and claw at his enemies.

"I am he." He replied, barely even looking at Gerion.

"I am Daario Naharis," The sellsword captain spoke his own name as though it was a magic spell, offered his hand to Gerion as though it was a priceless gift. He was blue-haired, as most Tyroshi were prone to be, spread out carelessly in his chair, lithe and handsome as the Shavepate was stout and ugly.

"You must be a skilled warrior to keep up with the Dothraki," Naharis looked Gerion up and down with a mocking smile. "I am quite capable with a blade myself, and there is so little time to use it now that our queen is done with conquering. Perhaps we might have a bout?"

"I can hold my own when situation requires it, but I'm not much for tourneys now." Gerion gave a thin smile of his own. "I daresay I could give you a few tips though, if you're keen to improve." Naharis frowned at that, but Gerion had already moved on. "You must be the Captain of the Unsullied."

The eunuch gave a stony nod, but otherwise said and did nothing. His eyes were cold and ever watchful from the years of instruction that was beaten into his heart and soul.

Gerion frowned at the last seat, sitting empty. "I was under the assumption that Ser Barristan Selmy was the Lord Commander of your Queensguard, Your Grace," he looked over at the Queen sitting at the head of the table. "Is it not customary for the Lord Commander to sit at the King or Queen's small council meetings?"

A small frown settled at the corner of the silver queen's mouth, the slightest hint of concern. "Ser Barristan…is resting."

The Lannister gave a solemn nod that wasn't completely false before taking in the rest of the room. The most honourable knight in the world at the Queen's disposal and he lies in a sickbed? That alone has my curiosity piqued. Is the old man being poisoned?

His eyes fell on the Seneschal. Reznak almost screamed treachery with his slimy speech and simpering manner. He reminds me of the Spider, Varys. Sycophants are rarely as submissive as they would have people believe..

It could just as likely be that vulture sitting over there. The Shavepate certainly looked capable of stabbing someone in the back, and even the front if he felt like it. Gerion had heard of how the man had risen in Daenerys court and denounced the old ways with violent vigour. But few men become leaders without looking to their own profit, without keeping some secrets.

Daario Naharis was sneering at Gerion as though at a badly cleaned privy he had to use. I've seen his like a thousand times, the arrogant whelp. The Queen's own paramour, perhaps, but its plain enough he has no loyalty to anyone but himself.

Gerion smiled as he sat himself down in Ser Barristan's empty chair. A city full of traitors and murderers. This is going to be fun. He smiled over to others. "Now then, Reznak, what were you saying as I arrived? Something about Zhak and Merreq?"