Late August, 300 AC

Dawn rose slowly over the city of Meereen.

The stench of death stung Jaime's nose as the ship drew near the docks. Between the bay and the city lay a charred desolation. Corpses littered the battlefield like ragdolls, attended by carrion crows busy at their work. His searching gaze could find no glint of metal; the dead had been stripped bare, their armor and weapons claimed by the victors.

Behind the city walls shadowed pyramids loomed over the dusty streets, bathed in blood-red light. A few of the largest pyramids were a single shade of brick; the rest were striped or divided by halves or thirds. One was green on top and black below, another was striped in alternating levels of pink and white, a third was green at the apex and the base, with the central levels in yellow.

The Great Pyramid bore stripes of many colors, reminding the lesser pyramids of their place. Every level was a different hue; as the sun rose he picked out deep purple and faded ivory, ash grey and sickly green, pale orange and muddy yellow, scarlet red and azure blue.

Men crawled like ants across the tops of several pyramids, raising clouds of dust. What on earth were they doing? Working, big brother , he could hear Tyrion say dryly.

Jaime smiled bitterly. He wondered how many knights had lain eyes on this strange city. He was thousands and thousands of leagues from home, from Cersei. I am here for your sake, sweet sister. Once he had dreamt of wedding Cersei, of claiming the Iron Throne for themselves and for Tommen. But Varys was right; such a dream could never come to pass. Cersei would have to be content to rule Casterly Rock by his side; the lords of the west would never rise against Tywin's heir, not with dragons wheeling through the skies above the Red Keep.

The eunuch had told him little and less as he led Jaime to the ship that would take him across the Narrow Sea. For a week Jaime lurked in his small cabin, the stuffy air growing ever thicker. The cabin boy brought wine and food but said nothing, not even when Jaime tried his hand at High Valyrian.

On the last day of their voyage the boy brought razor and soap, and shaved Jaime's head in silence. His beard the boy left, working a dark brown dye into the coarse hair. Clothes were provided, the simple tunic and breeches of a merchant, along with a pair of soft gloves. One was ordinary, the other stuffed so as to appear like a normal hand. Jaime grinned mirthlessly as he secured the padded glove to his stump, tying it with small leather straps. See, father, you are not the only one who can give me gifts. The golden hand was long gone, sunk to the bottom of Blackwater Bay along with Jaime's golden sword. I should have given it to Varys; what other sword can boast of kingslaying and kinslaying?

The eunuch had dubious friends in many places, but the Pentoshi cheesemonger still came as something of a surprise. Jaime had imagined being hosted by some lowly agent, or perhaps a merchant who sold secrets with his spices. But a magister of Pentos... Jaime could not imagine how such a man could be in Varys' debt.

Illyrio Mopatis was fatter than Mace Tyrell, with a forked yellow beard as oily as his words. His manse was nearly as luxurious as Casterly Rock, its whitewashed walls gorgeously painted and filled with silks and statues and tapestries. There were courtyards and gardens too, and a marble pool with waters clear as crystal. Cherry trees surrounded the pool, their fruits pale and small. They would not be ripe for some time, but Jaime tried one anyway. The fruit was hard and bitter, and he spit out both flesh and pit.

The fat man's words proved easier to swallow, washed down with dark red wine. Over a table groaning with delicacies Illyrio Mopatis explained how Varys had stolen into the royal nursery and carried Prince Aegon away, leaving a tanner's son behind in his place.

"Without Princess Elia's leave? And his mother never noticed?" Jaime asked, bemused.

All infants looked the same, but for their coloring. Prince Aegon had been born on Dragonstone, a healthy babe with silver hair and purple eyes. The birth was so difficult that Princess Elia had not come to court until the Mad King ordered her there. None of her Dornish ladies had accompanied her, only her maids. Aerys had been quite wroth at the loss of additional hostages, but even he was not stupid enough to do more than confine Elia to her chambers. Jaime had seen the Dornish princess only a few times, cradling a pale babe whose violet eyes reminded him more of Ser Arthur Dayne than of Prince Rhaegar.

Illyrio shrugged. "She was often ill, was she not? Better that she not sicken herself with worry. And besides, a woman cannot divulge secrets she does not know."

That was true enough, but something niggled at him. "Why not keep the boy with his aunt and uncle? Surely Viserys and Daenerys posed no threat to a mewling babe."

Illyrio stared at him for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. "Only a fool stores all his treasures in one place. Rhaella crowned Viserys on Dragonstone after the sack, but that mewling babe had a better claim to the Iron Throne. We did not know how the little king might react if told to yield his crown to an infant. The boy of seven might take it well enough, but as he grew into manhood... he proved Aerys' son in the end, and the Dothraki crowned him with molten gold."

"And Aegon?"

"Is his father's son. A noble lad, as fierce as he is handsome, as clever as he is courtly. When he dreamt of Daenerys surrounded by foes, nothing would do but that he rush to her aid, the Golden Company at his heels."

The harsh screams of crows interrupted Jaime's thoughts, drawing his gaze back to the devastation. He doubted even Lord Tywin could boast of defeating so great a siege. Was all this the work of a mere ten thousand men? The Golden Company were the most well reputed of sellswords, their company founded by the lords and knights who had supported Daemon Blackfyre's rebellion some hundred years ago. The legitimized bastard of a Targaryen king, Daemon Blackfyre had sought the crown before perishing in battle on the Redgrass Field. His cause lived far longer than he did, thanks to another Targaryen bastard, Bittersteel. Four times had the Golden Company sought to place a Blackfyre on the throne, and four times they failed.

All the Blackfyres were dead now, the last pretender slain by Barristan the Bold in his youth. The Golden Company endured nonetheless, their ranks filled with descendants of rebels and with Westerosi exiles. They fought for one Free City or another, taking gold from Myr and Tyrosh and whomever else could afford them, without hope of ever returning home. But with two trueborn Targaryens and three dragons... Westeros is theirs for the taking.

Jaime curled his fingers about the hilt of his longsword. It was a gift from Illyrio Mopatis, though he shook his head and declaimed at length about the superiority of bravos and their slim blades. "There is no grace to the iron dance, the hacking and hammering of knights staggering beneath their armor. The water dance, ah, that is true beauty. No knight can match a bravo's skill."

I could have , Jaime had thought, smiling as he ignored the lump in his throat. Once he had made steel sing, the glory of battle turning his armor light as a feather. Now he sweated and struggled like a squire, his sword ungainly in his left hand. Jaime had spent the entire voyage from Pentos to Volantis on the ship's rolling deck, attempting to find any remnants of his old skill. Even his footwork was awkward and unnatural, the mirror image of what it should be now that he must rely on his left hand.

At Volantis their journey abruptly halted. Autumn storms assailed the port for nigh on two weeks, the winds so violent that the ship required a third week in port for repairs. No sooner were the repairs completed than the harbor was becalmed, the skies crystal clear with not a puff of wind to be had. Bored senseless with his lavish cabin and the cramped deck, Jaime took to wandering the docks.

Volantis was a mighty city, old and proud, but he knew little of its long history. First of the Free Cities, the men of Valyria had built Volantis across the mouth of the Rhoyne, which formed a large, deep natural harbor. Black walls of fused dragonstone surrounded the eastern half of the city, Old Volantis where those descended from Valyria held sway. The Long Bridge, an immense bridge of fused stone, spanned the river and joined the two halves of Volantis. The western half was packed full to bursting with those of lesser birth, from merchants in silks to priests in red robes to slaves with tattooed cheeks.

The lack of breeze only worsened the hot, damp weather. Jaime thought King's Landing unpleasant in summer, but Volantis was much worse, being further south. The air was thick and heavy; even the shortest walk was enough to drench him in sweat. Most Volantenes seemed to have forgotten the use of their legs; palanquins and ornate carts drawn by dwarf elephants were everywhere. It took an entire morning and every word Jaime knew of High Valyrian to find an inn where he could hire a decent horse.

Tyrion might have done it in half the time. The few words he remembered of High Valyrian were thanks to his scholarly little brother, who had soaked up the maester's lessons like a sponge. At the age of eight Tyrion had decided to speak nothing but High Valyrian for a week. Cersei gladly took the opportunity to ignore him; Jaime had been more indulgent, letting his brother ramble on though his own lessons were mostly forgotten.

Relieved by the familiar sensation of being in the saddle, Jaime explored the western half of the city. Stalls covered the cobblestone streets, hawking everything from soft flatbreads filled with roasted meat to iced green drinks that reeked of mint. Unfortunately, the fresh scent did nothing to cover the other smells lingering in the heat that shimmered off the streets. Perfumes assaulted his nose, some sweet, some spiced, some floral, yet they could not cover the stink of the city. Fish were the least of his worries; there were fouler things. Rotten flesh, and burnt wood.

He discovered the source of the stench on his return to the Merchant's House, the inn where he had hired the horse. Before the burnt shell of an enormous auction house stood a row of wooden crossbeams, with naked men and women nailed upon them. All bore slave tattoos on their cheeks, though no two were the same. Jaime could barely tell the color of their skin beneath the black clouds of flies and red streaks of blood that covered the hapless slaves. Tablets stood beside each slave, but Jaime did not even attempt to decipher the Valyrian glyphs.

His horse returned to the stables, Jaime entered the common room of the inn for a cool drink. It was filled with others looking to escape the glare of the mid-afternoon sun; dark Summer Islanders in their feathers, golden wood bows slung across their shoulders, pale hairy Ibbenese grunting in their harsh tongue, and sailor and merchants from a dozen other lands. He even espied a man with the narrow eyes and golden skin of Yi Ti, garbed in flowing robes of embroidered silk, a tall hat with a flat top perched on his ebon hair.

Annoyed by the press of the crowd, Jaime glanced about for a table. In a corner by the courtyard lay a table steeped in shadow, and seemingly empty. With a sigh of relief Jaime made for the table, only to find it occupied by an old woman. Her white hair was thin; a faint scar marked one of her cheeks below her eye. An odd mix of treasures lay on the table beside her empty goblet; a shawl of translucent cloth, richly embroidered, a bracelet of pearls and rubies, a cyvasse board with exquisitely carved ivory pieces. The old woman raised an eyebrow, a sly smile upon her foxlike face.

"May I join you, my lady?" Jaime asked, praying she spoke the Common Tongue.

"Have you brought me a gift?" The old woman spoke the Common Tongue with barely an accent, her voice a smooth purr.

"A gift?" Jaime asked, perplexed. Some instinct drew his eye to the overgrown archway to the woman's left. A man was hidden in the leaves there, he would wager Casterly Rock on it.

"Helpless old women require guards about them," the woman said, noting his glance. She examined Jaime for a moment, her eyes sharp as she took in the golden stubble on his head, the bushy beard golden at the roots and brown everywhere else, the sword at his right hip and the padded glove on his stump.

"A Westerosi knight, unless I miss my guess. You may sit, ser."

With a polite nod Jaime joined her at the table. The shade offered some relief from the stifling heat, as did the iced green drink, though he could not place the cool flavor.

"May I ask what this drink is?" Jaime asked. Whoever this old woman was, he was oddly grateful for an opportunity to converse in the Common Tongue with someone other than the captain of the ship and the few sailors who hailed from Westeros.

"Iosre, it is called. The drink is made with cucumber, a refreshing green fruit that hails from Yi Ti," the woman informed him. She seemed amused by his ignorance. "What may I call you, good knight?"

"Ja-" Jaime bit his tongue. It would not do to upset Cersei should she learn of his whereabouts. "Ser Jason Hill, my lady." Her smile widened, showing very white teeth.

"I am no lady, merely Vogarro's widow." Her black eyes were bright despite her age, filled with a cunning that put Jaime on his guard. "What brings you to Volantis?"

"A ship."

The widow laughed without humor.

"You are wittier than the last knight to sit beside me. Younger too, and fairer to look upon despite that dreadful beard."

"Oh? Might I ask his name?" Few knights chose to sail across the Narrow Sea; those that did joined sellsword companies. Why any knight should be in Volantis and speaking with an old widow, Jaime could not guess.

"I would have no answer to give you, nor shall I. The knight is dead. A swarthy man he was, brutish and balding, with a black bear on his surcoat. He sought my aid in sailing east, and took my refusal poorly."

A black bear... vaguely Jaime recalled a tourney at Lannisport after the Greyjoy Rebellion. A thickheaded northerner had been his opponent in the last match, and they had broken nine lances to no result. Robert had been delighted to deny Jaime the victory in favor of Ser Jorah Mormont. The man had fled into exile some seven years past, he recalled, though he forgot what Mormont's crime had been.

"And your guard chastised him?"

The widow crooked a bony finger. With barely a sound a man slipped from the greenery in the archway, a heavy shortsword in his muscled hand. The guard's face was a mass of scars, but Jaime was not impressed. The Hound was far bigger and uglier.

"I suppose he cut his throat?" Jaime ventured, toasting the widow with his cup. The widow quirked a brow.

"No, merely tossed him in the courtyard. His death was a far more messy business. He'd taken one of the rooms here; the fourth floor is quite cheap. After I denied him, the knight returned with a Lyseni bedslave. A pretty thing, perhaps three and ten, with hair like molten silver. Marra, her name was, but the knight called her Daenerys."

Jaime smiled mockingly to hide his discomfort.

"Virgin bedslaves are rare and costly. No doubt the knight looked forward to blood upon his sheets, but I doubt he expected it to be his own. He was found in his bed the next day, throat slit, bedslave unaccountably missing. The tiger cloaks have combed the city for her; the penalty for a slave slaying her master is a most cruel and lingering death. Alas, the girl seems to have vanished."

The widow sipped her drink, her eyes crinkled with satisfaction.

"You best hope for fair winds, and soon. Westerosi draw suspicion, being savages who oppose the peculiar institution of slavery. The triarchs have already expelled all Braavosi from the city, fearing they stir dissent. Old Volantis honors the memory of Valyria most devoutly. There are five slaves for every free man, and no dragonlords to keep them quiet in their fetters. Tell me, ser, what do you know of the Doom?"

Jaime shrugged. "Little enough. My maester blamed the Valyrians for their arrogance in building the Freehold in the midst of the Fourteen Flames. My septon blamed the wrath of the Seven against mages and demon worshippers."

"There is another tale, one told only in Braavos." He leaned closer, for the widow's voice had grown quiet. "For five thousand years Valyria built her power with the blood of slaves. Again and again the slaves revolted, to no avail. They were many, but their chains were heavy and the masters were strong in sorcery, so strong they could control the Fourteen Flames. To overthrow them was impossible. To kill them, however... even a mage is but a man. One by one the slaves took their vengeance, the spells weakening with every death, until at last—"

"The mountains roared their fury, and Valyria perished in fire and blood."

The widow's eyes glittered like onyx. "To speak of revolt is punishable by death in every free city but Braavos, Lorath, and Pentos, yet every generation sees at least one uprising. In my girlhood the slaves of Lys rose; in one night the First Magister and gonfaloniere were both poisoned by their bedslaves, along with a hundred other powerful men. Then the sellswords came."

Her mouth twisted.

"The magisters decreed that their suffering be prolonged for a year, the women passed around every great family in Lys for their vile amusement. When the year was up they cut out their tongues and chained them in the public square beneath a fountain designed to release a single drop of acid at the tug of a rope. By the time the magisters let them die every slave in Lys had been made to pull that rope. I was but eight, yet I still remember how they screamed. The First Magister's favorite was my mother."

Jaime swallowed back bile as the widow sipped her drink. "Soon after I was bought by a man who sent me to Yunkai to be trained in the way of the seven sighs. I was five and twenty when the sleeping sickness came through the Yellow City. Quite unaccountable, how many masters sweated through their tokars and passed in the night. Perhaps it had aught to do with their rich dinners; no bedslaves died of the affliction."

The hairs on the back of Jaime's neck began to prickle. "Poison."

The widow leaned back against her bench.

"Mayhaps. My master was happy to flee for Volantis, and Vogarro bought me shortly after. He freed me, and when he died I took over his business. For fifty years I have lived in this city, oldest of Valyria's daughters, gathering whispers and forging alliances, waiting for a day that may never come. And yet I hear that in two moon's turns, a child of Westeros, a Targaryen of Old Valyria no less, woke dragons and used them to burn the Good Masters of Astapor, outwit the Wise Masters of Yunkai, and conquer the Great Masters of Meereen. The red priests have suddenly found their courage; Benerro, the High Priest, openly preaches that the silver queen is the chosen of the Lord of Light, and that those who oppose her are cursed by R'hollor. The triarchs dare not touch him; half the tiger cloaks follow the Lord of Light, as do nearly all freemen and slaves."

"Why tell me this?"

The widow's bony fingers tapped the table, one eyebrow raised. "The silver queen has many enemies, and some enemies come in the shape of friends. Or did you think I was unaware that your ship is owned by Illyrio Mopatis?"

Jaime covered his shock beneath a cutting smile. "What of it?"

"Do not play the fool with me, ser. The silver queen spent a year in his household before he sold her to the Dothraki. He may have gifted her dragon eggs, but that fat fleshmonger never thought she would hatch them. Three ships he sent to retrieve Daenerys Targaryen, and she turned them into battering rams to smash Meereen's gates. Now he sends you. For what purpose, I wonder? To slay the queen as you did her father?"

His hand jerked and hit his cup. It fell into his lap, iosre soaking his tunic. The widow did not even twitch.

"The highborn are such poor liars. Volantis is far from Westeros, but even here we have heard of the disappearance of Ser Jaime Lannister. A handsome knight, it is said, with golden hair, emerald eyes, and a missing sword hand. I had expected more charm, truth be told, and the beard does not suit your features. Still, it would be a shame to have a pretty man killed when he might be of use. So tell me, ser, why do you seek the silver queen?"

It was past dusk when the widow finally ceased her questioning. Jaime told her of Aerys' madness, of the stink of burning flesh and the echo of sobs and screams from within the queen's chambers. He told her of his failure to protect Rhaegar's children, of his fear that his little nephew would someday share their bloody fate.

He did not tell her of Aegon, instead claiming it was Illyrio Mopatis who had sent the Golden Company to Daenerys in the hope of becoming her master of coin. The Golden Company's sudden departure for Meereen was known, but most assumed that the slavers had hired the company to aid in the siege. To his relief the sharp old widow did not press him further on the subject, believing Illyrio's greed and Jaime's desire to regain his honor by serving Rhaegar's heir. That the heir was not Daenerys she did not guess, and she bade him safe travels.

"Should you reach the silver queen, bear her these tidings. Daenerys knows not the inferno she sparked at Astapor. Slavers tremble in fear, hiding behind their walls and their guards whilst kitchen slaves sharpen their knives and healer slaves brew poisons in the dead of night. Meereen is but one of many cities. Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon."

Another week passed before the winds permitted the ship to weigh anchor. The captain had told Jaime it would be a month's journey, if the winds were fair. His optimism proved unfounded; the ship moved slowly, and lost several days fleeing from pirates. Whatever else might be said of the captain, he was an able seaman, and well used to dodging pirates, though the sight of a longship with black sails and a red hull had caused the entire crew to blanch as one before leaping into action.

Now, at last, his journey was nearly at its end. Jaime had left King's Landing at the end of fifth moon; it was now approaching ninth moon. His heart pounded as the sailors drew close to the docks. Soon he would lay eyes upon Rhaegar's son and Rhaegar's sister, and see whether the cheesemonger spoke truly of their worth.

Soon he would see whether he must slay another mad Targaryen.


Notes:

1) I freaking love the widow of the waterfront. Sex worker who managed to get her freedom and then took over her husband's business to plot against slavery? Fuck yes. I had so much fun working out her backstory.

2) GRRM does not really think through the logistics of slavery. At all. The economy of Slaver's Bay makes no goddamn sense and there's no reference to slave revolts; Ancient Rome had three massive slave revolts and many minor ones. I'm correcting this because fuck it.

3) Book Jorah Mormont is a slaver and a pedophile, and I'd like him to die in a fire. The show turning him into a Nice Guy still infuriates me. Asshole. May he rot in pieces.