A/N: Thank you everyone who left a review

It had rained hard in the night, and great pools of dirty water filled the streets like tiny doorways into other worlds. It was early yet, and the sun was still trapped behind the grey expanse of clouds. He wondered if the Harpy was out there somewhere, gazing into the same murky world as he was.

He gave a long sigh as he turned away from the window and back into the great hall, his mother's throne room. Empty and bathed in grey light that were heavy with floating dust, the shafts of light made criss-cross patterns across the floor. Near to Rhaego, on a raised-up dais, stood Queen Daenerys' simple bench throne.

The story was that when his mother came into the great pyramid she found a monstrosity of oak that was carved into the shape of a harpy, and had the thing cut to pieces and used for firewood, preferring to sit atop a simple, undecorated bench. The throne, the hall and the city around it had all changed far beyond recognition since the dragon had come.

"Well then?" Rhaego jerked his head round; saw his mother watching him from the shadows, with the faintest of smiles. "Aren't you going to sit on it?"

Rhaego shook his head, even though he had slept but a little and felt pangs of stiffness in his legs all the ways up to his knees. "Dirt was always enough for me to sit on, that or a saddle. I'm no king."

"You are a Khal," she said quietly, taking a few steps out into the grey light, her violet dress flowing in the gentle breeze. "And is that not a king?"

Rhaego grimaced but gave a nod. "I suppose it is."

His mother was a few strides away, but made no attempt to come any closer. She knew better than that. "I've something I need to ask of you…"

Rhaego sucked in a deep breath and blew it out. "Ask away."

"I need someone to make peace with the Lhazareen," she said coolly, her purple eyes regarding him with faint curiosity. "If we can open the trading routes back up then it would do a great deal to help my people here. I was going to send Daario, but I believe you would be better suited to the task."

He felt his hand clench into a fist at the mention of Daario. He had seen the slimy creature roaming about the Great Pyramid as if he owned it and worse he had seen how the man and his mother looked at each other. It felt like a betrayal, not only to his dead father, but to Jorah as well, even if she had never returned his affections. "What can I do that your sellsword cannot?"

"You speak their language, you are known to them." her lips curled into an affectionate smile. "You have treated them fairly and more importantly….you have protected them."

Rhaego closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head. "I haven't, I am not a hero."

Daenerys took a hesitant step forward. "I have seen that child; I know how you saved her from slavers….don't you see? That is the kind of man you could be, you have so much potential if only you-"

"Fine," he said suddenly, taking a few steps back. "I'll gather my men and leave in an hour." He turned and made for the door without looking back.

"Rhaego," she called from behind him. "You are to leave your priestess here. Is that understood?"

He looked down at his feet and gave a sad sigh. "Yes…Your Grace."

The first traces of dawn were creeping over the plain, a glimmer of light on the undersides of the towering clouds, a muddy flare on the eastern horizon. It was a beautiful sight, that first grey glow. Rhaego had seen it many times before, but never did he tire of it. With the gentle breeze kissing his back and moving its invisible fingers through his hair as softly as a lover, Rhaego felt content.

Jakerhro frowned at the rising sun. "Your fire priestess would have said praise for the day to come."

"Aye," he agreed. "Most likely she would have tried to convert the Lamb men to her religion as well."

He frowned inwardly at Mylessa's absence. Whatever his mother had been planning, he didn't like it and left Gerion and a large portion of his Khalasar with her to help ward off any unpleasantness until he returned to Meereen. Things will no doubt become unpleasant when I return anyways…

Rhaego peered over at the dull shapes up ahead, slowly growing in detail as they rode. There was a huddle of buildings on the side nearest them, or the shells of buildings. No roofs left, nothing but the tumbledown walls, mostly no more than a waist high, the fallen stones from them scattered across the field and in amongst the great grass. It was a familiar sight to the Khal; many villages were abandoned when the Dothraki came. People driven out, dragged out, and burned out. Rhaego had watched it happen, often. He'd joined in more than once. He wasn't proud of it, but there wasn't much he was proud of in his life.

"Not a lot left to live in," muttered Jakerhro. There was no sign of anyone down there. No sounds beyond the giggling water of a nearby creek, the slow wind slithering through the grass. He urged his steed onwards and his men followed.

Rhaego caught some movement in the stones to their left, and he snatched hold of the hilt of his axe. A couple of birds took to the skies. He waited, heart in his mouth. Nothing. He let his hand drop back. His red seemed to sense his anxiety so he reached down and patted its neck, then urged it to move faster.

He didn't see the spear coming, but if he had there would have been nothing he could have done. It was lucky, in a way, that it missed his leg but less so when it thudded deep into the horseflesh just in front of it. He heard his red snort as its legs buckled, as he came free of the saddle, mouth dropping open and no sound coming out, the stony dirt flashing up to meet him. Hard stone crunched into his chest and snatched his wind away. His jaw smacked against the ground and his head flooded with blinding light. He bounced once, then flopped over, the world spinning madly around him, full of strange sound and blinding sky.

He laid in a daze, groaning softly, his head reeling, his ears ringing, not knowing where he was or even who. Then the world came suddenly back together. He jerked his head up. Screaming and shouting was deafening and dozens of warriors in brightly coloured armour came out to meet his riders.

Rhaego grabbed his axe and drunkenly rose to his feet. Two killers advanced from within the grass towards him. One of them had piggy eyes and a heavy jaw. The other was thinner, with a tangled thatch of dark red hair. They stared at him and Rhaego stared back, trying to get the ringing out of his head.

The two killers looked strong and well equipped. They both wore armour of rigid leather, carried square shields. One had a short sword, the other an arakh with a heavy blade. Deadly-looking
weapons, well worn. Both had the Harpy painted upon their chests.

The one to Rhaego's left came at him. He saw the man snarl, saw him rear up, saw the great unwieldy backswing. He casually stepped out of the way and let it thud into the turf beside him. On instinct he swung his axe and buried it into the man's side, between his breastplate and his backplate. Even as he was ripping the blade back he was ducking under the other's arakh and whipping his axe across at neck height.

A wheezing sound erupted from the first man and he staggered a step or two, grabbing at his side. The other stood there, swaying, his piggy eyes bulging, his hand clutched to his neck. Blood began to pour out between his fingers from his slit throat. They fell almost at the same time, face down, right next to each other.

"Behind you!" someone shouted. Rhaego turned, bring up his axe, and saw something moving out of the very corner of his eye. There was the faintest glimmer of steel and his head exploded with brilliant light. Then all was darkness.

GERION

Galazza Galare came into the council chamber attended by a dozen young girls. White Graces they were called, girls of noble birth who were still too young to serve their year in the temple's pleasure gardens. It was a quaint sight; the proud old women, surrounded by the little girls robed in white an innocent image of a grandmother with her brood. And yet my own grandmother had never done a kind thing in her whole life, so the image is wasted on me….

Gerion was at once amused and saddened by the Graces of Meereen. The open sexuality of the Red Graces made a hilarious contrast to the Septas that had populated Westerosi culture and served as a reminder of how chaste and boring the Lannister's homeland could be. But when he saw the young girls walking with the Green Grace, all innocence and happy, he was reminded of Joy and had to swollen a painful knot of guilt.

The old woman looked up at Gerion with the slightest hint of surprise before quickly giving him a motherly smile. "Good Ser knight, I am here to see her Radiance the queen."

"Queen Daenerys has been delayed," With Daario Naharis between her legs, "And will be with you in all haste. Until then, I am to escort you to the dining table."

Galare gave him another smile. "At least I will be in good company as I wait." The old woman's hair was white and her skin was parchment thin, but her eyes were still sharp and alive. They were a vibrant green that matched her robes, with a sadness about them that hinted at wisdom.

He gave a hum of agreement and led the elderly woman out into the queen's dining chambers where a lavish meal had been prepared. Honeyed lamb, fragrant with crushed mint and served with figs.

"I have heard about you Ser," she informed him as she took a seat near the head of the table, to the right of where Daenerys would no doubt sit. "A Westerosi knight in service to the prince, it's quite a sight for ones such as us who have never been to your great western land. You have even begun to help her Radiance in keeping the peace within our great walls."

Gerion inclined his head. "I have been trying, but it is a very big city."

Galazza Galare sipped some wine, but kept her green eyes on Gerion's own. "More freedmen died last night, or so I have been told."

Simply saying they died is an injustice. The Sons of the Harpy attacked three weavers, destroyed their beautiful loom and raped them bloody before slitting their throats. Gerion swallowed his disgust and kept his face neutral and his voice even. "I had heard something about that, yes."

"And yet her Radiance has been courageous enough to show mercy on the hostages she holds," the smile on the old woman's face seemed respectful, her voice almost quivering with awe.

Gerion allowed himself to smile. "Her Grace is a good woman, she has no wish to see anyone come to harm."

"And for that Meereen gives thanks," said the Green Grace.

Do they? Or are they laughing at her for not meeting their butchery with her own? "Sons of the Harpy," he drawled, savouring the taste of the word. "That would imply that they are the children of another, someone greater than them."

Galare gave another motherly smile, as if Gerion was her little boy and had said something delightfully innocent and foolish. "The Harpy is the symbol of Old Ghis, Ser, and these savages must think themselves children of the old way."

"So you don't think that they have a single leader?" he asked curiously, matching her grandmotherly nature with childlike curiosity.

"Oh, I'm sure it's possible," she said with a laugh. "But what man would be able to organize them so, what man could inspire such loyalty that they do not fear dragons?"

"Maybe the Harpy is not a man," he suggested. "The sigil is, after all, a woman."

Another kind laugh. "If these men could follow the orders of a woman then we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place."

He feigned a smile of his own but could not break his thoughts. Maybe not most women, but someone beloved by their gods...

"Ah!" came the voice of the Queen as she entered, wearing her violet tokar and being trailed by two small children. If she had been otherwise indulging herself with Naharis, she wore her composure well. "There you are!" she hurried over to them with a lovely smile. "I hope Ser Gerion has kept you entertained."

The Green Grace rose and bowed her head. "He has, Your Radiance, a most interesting discussion."

"Aye," agreed Gerion. "It was very….informative."

You don't have to admire the Meereenese, but they certainly can make good chairs. Gerion settled back into the softness with a sigh, stretching his feet out towards the fire, working the tension from his aching ankles round and round in circles.

Mylessa did not seem quite so comfortable. But then having the Mother of Dragons constantly looking over her shoulder is hardly a comforting thought. She stood frowning out of the window, thoughtful, one hand pulling nervously at a strand of hair. "I should go and speak with one of Rhaego's Kos at once."

Gerion shrugged. "Do as you will."

"He should know."

"Then tell him. You don't need my blessing to tell your lover that his mother is causing you grief, I'm not your father."

Mylessa dumped herself into the chair opposite, staring sourly at the flames. "You have been out searching for these murderers?"

"As best I can," he grinned. "I don't suppose your fire god could lend a hand?"

She gave him a levelling frown at that. "I am not a trained dog."

Gerion shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"What progress have you made?" she asked, curiosity lining her voice.

"A start," he muttered, while scratching at his stubbled jaw. He reached round and dragged a cushion into a better position, then stretched out further with a satisfied grunt. I could almost pretend, sitting in this warm and comfortable room with a beautiful woman, that I was still in Casterly Rock. He had a smile on his face as he continued. "The brothel owner claims to have seen nothing, and the girl who was with our dead horselord is a mute, so no help there. Since my last trip into the slums six more freedmen have been butchered and it seems they are growing even crueller. They cut the fingers off a local harpist before they killed her and all because she made beautiful music."

"They're trying to send a message." She sat back, one fingertip rubbing thoughtfully at her jaw. "And no one is saying anything?"

"All collectively silent, it's infuriating," muttered Gerion, tiredly.

Mylessa leant forward from her chair. "They must be extremely confident to do all this without fear of Queen Daenerys wroth; some nobleman must being guiding them. It has to be someone from within Daenerys own court."

Gerion nodded. She is no fool. "I've been thinking the same, and there is no shortage of suspects. Reznak is clearly still loyal to the old regime, though he tries to hide it under the layers of sickening praise. The Shavepate is simply a cruel man who seeks war, mayhaps he has been feeding these Sons of the Harpy information to try and provoke Daenerys into killing all of his political rivals." He scratched at his golden stubble. "Daario Naharis is a simple cutthroat; it wouldn't surprise me if he had been giving away intimate knowledge of the Queen's plans for a few pieces of gold."

The red woman smiled knowingly. "Rhaego despises the man."

"With good reason," he chuckled. "I don't think I would be friends with any man who fucked my mother either." His face pressed into a deep frown and he lowered his voice to a whisper. "I do not like the Green Grace, she-"

But before he could continue Gerion was cut off by the chamber door being thrown open and Jakerhro standing in the doorway, covered in blood and panting heavily. "Lannister….Priestess….you must….Rhaego…he's hurt!"

Rhaego's face was near healed. Faint pink stripe left across his forehead, through his brow, across his cheek. More than likely it would fade altogether in a few days more. His eye still ached a bit, but he had kept his looks largely intact. Mylessa lay in the bed, sheet round her waist, slender back turned towards him. He stood a moment, grinning, watching her chest shift gently as she breathed, patches of shadow between her ribs shrinking and growing. Then he padded from the mirror across to the open window, looking out. Beyond it the city was burning, fires lighting up the night. It was strange, he wasn't sure which city, or why he was there. His mind was moving slowly. He winced, rubbing at his cheek.

"By the gods," he grunted. "It hurts."

"Oh, you think that hurts?" he whipped round, stumbling back against the wall. The Bearded priest of the Norvosi prison loomed over him, holding his severed head in his hands.

Rhaego frowned. "You're dead."

The headless man laughed. "You damned right I'm dead!" he gave a deep bow, showing of the bloody stump of his neck, the traces of spine stick out amongst the red meat. "This really hurts!" his severed head complained.

"I'm dreaming," Rhaego said to himself, trying to think his way through it, but his face was throbbing, throbbing. "I must be dreaming."

"You didn't eat the heart," His father, grey with rot and skin scrawling with maggots was shaking his head. "Your mother ate the heart, but you didn't."

"This is wrong," snarled Rhaego through gritted teeth, sitting down on his crossed legs by the fire. His whole head was pulsing. "This is just…just…wrong!"

He felt himself grabbed from behind, face twisted round. Jorah Mormont was there beside him, flesh burnt black and bubbling, yellow-white patches of his skull showing through the ruin of his face. "If you were stronger then you wouldn't have let your mother kill me, and maybe you couldn't have got your eye cut in half." And he ground his thumb into Rhaego's eye, harder and harder. Rhaego thrashed, and twisted, and screamed, but there was no way free. It was already done.

He woke up screaming. He always did now, though it could hardly be called a scream anymore, his voice was worn down to a grinding stub, gravel in his raw throat.

It was dark. Pain tore at his face like a wolf at a carcass. He thrashed free of the blankets, reeled to nowhere. It was like the blade was still pressing into him. He crashed into a wall, fell on his knees. He was bent over, hands squeezing the sides of his skull like they might stop his head cracking open. Rocking, every muscle flexed to bursting. He groaned and moaned, whimpered and snarled, spat and blubbered, drooled and gibbered, mad from it, mindless with it. Touch it, press it. He held his shaking fingers to his bandages.

"Shhhh." He felt a hand. Mylessa was pawing at his face, pushing back his hair. Pain split his head where his eye used to be like an axe splitting a log, split his mind too, broke it open, thoughts all spilling out in a mad splatter. "By the gods….make it stop!" he grabbed her hand and she winced, gasped. He didn't care. "Kill me! Kill me. Just make it stop." He wasn't even sure what tongue he was speaking, common, Dothraki, Valyrian, they were all the same. "Kill me. By the…" he was sobbing, tears stinging the eye he still had. She tore her hand away and he was rocking again, rocking, pain ripping through his face like a saw through wood. He had tried to do as his queen had asked.

"I tried, I fucking tried. Make it stop…please, please, please, please-"

"Here." he snatched the cup from her hands and sucked at it, greedy as a drunkard at the bottle. He hardly even tasted the milk of the poppy, just down it all until it was empty, and all the while she held him, arms tight around him, rocking him back and forward. The pain was a step away, instead of searing against him. his breathing had softened to a whimper, aching body all washed out.

She helped him up, dragging him to his feet, cup clattering from his limp hand. The open window swayed, like a painting of another world. The bed came up and swallowed him, sucked him down. His face throbbed still, pulsed a dull ache. He remembered, remembered why.

"By the gods…" he whispered, tears running down his other cheek. "My eye, they cut my eye out."

"Shhhh," she whispered, gently stroking the good side of his face. "Quiet now, Rhaego. Quiet."

The darkness was swallowing him. Before it took him he twisted his fingers clumsily in her hair and dragged her face towards his, almost close enough to kiss.

"Her fault," he whispered at her. "Her fault…"