A/N: I just wanted to thank those who were kind enough to take the time to review chapter 16: EyeofSoren, hellfire45, Upon a Pale Horse, doRodrigo, La nuit est blanche, Thatwildabsol, RedHood001, 14omega and Tertius711. The last chapter was particularly challenging so it was really rewarding to receive your kind words and encouraging reviews. I really appreciated it.

Farwynd & Fire

By Spectre4hire

17: The Last Day

The spymaster was waiting for her in a barely furnished room. He was standing behind his desk. The sunlight slanted through long and narrow windows.

"Doreah?"

"Yes, master," she answered. Today was the day. Doreah had been retrieved by a pair of armed thralls of Lord Dagon, who escorted her back to his manse.

"Not master," he clicked his tongue. "We don't follow that custom. You're not a slave, but a thrall. And you will address your betters as lord or lady. Is that understood?"

A new name, but it was all the same to her. The Magister had called her a servant, but she was his slave. Now, she was called a thrall, but experience had taught her a change of words would not change how she was treated. When she was a bed slave in Lys, she recalled a patron who visited her weekly, in their time, he'd always ask her before he did anything to her: May I fondle your breast, May I touch your hair, but the questions were hollow. It didn't soften what would follow. They both knew she could not deny him. He had spent good coin for her services. It was all an illusion for him, a trick of his to try to soothe his conscience while he ignored hers.

"Yes, m'lord," she answered, the thoughts flitted through her mind as quickly as a heartbeat.

He gestured for her to come closer.

She obeyed, but not before curtseying to him first.

He didn't notice. His eyes hadn't left whatever it was he was looking at on his desk. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Yes, m'lord," she answered. "I'm a gift from the great Magister Illyrio."

The spymaster scoffed. "I suppose he's great if girth is considered."

She took his words in silence, that was what was expected of a servant. Doreah had heard of Lord Dagon's spymaster and had even seen him a time or two, but only at a distance. Here, she could finally take him in. He had short, dark hair, a pale face, that was neither handsome nor hideous. "And what were you before you were sent here?"

"A servant to Magister Ilyrio."

He looked up at her then. His eyes were as strange as the captain he served. While the latter's were unsettling because of how they changed colors, his were strange by their absence of it. "You were a slave." His pale eyes were cold and hard as ice as he took her in for the first time since she arrived.

Were, she noticed the inflection of the word, as if her fortunes had truly changed. She had made good money for her master at the pillow house in Lys. A lady whom they called Domina, said she'd never be sold, only to sell Doreah when Magister Illyrio inquired after her.

"You have the pleasure and honor to serve someone better than those who owned you before," He said zealously, "The privilege to be counted among Lord Dagon's own thralls."

She didn't share his enthusiasm or his reverence but feigned it well enough. "I'm happy to serve m'lord."

"You'll go back to the Magister's tonight to begin your teachings for the princess," he ordered her, "to prepare her for tomorrow's wedding."

"Yes, m'lord," Magister Illyrio had told her as much.

"You go under the protection of Lord Dagon Farwynd," he said. "That means you are a guest, not a slave. Do you understand?" She didn't and he noticed. He sighed. "That means you can't be ordered by either the magister or the king."

She nodded, but she doubted the spymaster's words. He spoke as someone who expected his words to have weight, to be listened to and followed. He didn't know what it was to be powerless. She did, and she knew what would happen to her if she told powerful men-no. King Viserys would laugh as he fucked her. He'd likely hit her too at the mere thought, she could tell him something.

"Good," the spymaster believed the issue was settled. "Now before you were the magister's slave, you were a bed slave in a Lyseni pillow house?"

"I was, m'lord," she answered, thinking he likely knew as much. Was he testing me? Doreah was used to such things, traps and tricks to try to confuse her, to catch her in a lie, and get her in trouble.

"If I was to put a man or woman in front of you," he began. "Would you know what they would want? What they'd think? To anticipate their needs?"

She hid her confusion behind a placid smile. "Yes, m'lord," she answered, "I was taught how to read my clients, as well as how to seek out new ones." Doreah had used such means to bring new ones to her bed. To walk through the feasting and dancing, to see if the man drinking his third glass of wine would be receptive to her, or was it the sullen man, standing off to the side, appraising them within seconds to know who'd want her, and who wouldn't.

That pleased him. Doreah wondered if he'd ask for a demonstration of her ability. When Magister Illyrio wanted to buy her, she had to pleasure him in several different ways, reading his wants and lusts to help insure she was purchased. Does he want me to seduce him? He was better to look at than Illyrio, fit instead of fat, but she didn't expect it to be any different than those before. She learned long ago that the prettier ones were often the worst in bed. They brought little ability, having relied solely on their handsome features and nothing else. But then again, she reminded herself, she was paid for their pleasure not hers.

"Come forward," he ordered, confirming what she suspected that she'd have to prove her worth to him.

Doreah did, but as she moved to walk around the desk to get to him, he stopped her with a look. "Not that," he chided her, "This," he pointed to a piece of parchment on the desk. "I want you to read this."

She blinked, a flustered second passed before she composed herself. "I can't, m'lord."

He ignored her answer. He tapped it impatiently. "Read."

"I don't know how, m'lord."

His nostrils flared. "Do you think you are the first thrall to pretend they can't read or write?" Then he was moving around the desk, she kept her face low, demurring to him, but she didn't resist when she felt his hand grip her chin, and tilt it so she was staring down at the piece of parchment. "Read it," he snarled.

His hold on her was firm, not painful. Doreah saw only scribbling and marking on the parchment, unable to decipher any part of it. "I can't, m'lord," she answered softly, "I don't know how."

He let go of her hand with a scoff. She heard his receding footsteps and then the opening of a drawer. "Do you know what this is?"

Doreah looked up to see he had unsheathed a small knife with a thin blade. "No, m'lord."

He smiled, it turned his unremarkable face into something different, something cold and threatening. "This is a flaying knife," he said. "My father's house is famous for its history of flaying their enemies. A flayed man even graces their banner, but sadly flaying has been outlawed in the Seven Kingdoms for centuries," his colorless eyes flicked from the knife to her. "I'm under no such restriction, and it's a freedom I've enjoyed on several occasions when I have to," he placed the knife on the desk, the thin blade pointing at her. "I'll ask you one more time," he said quietly, "Read it."

"I can't, my lord," Doreah prepared herself, to slip away, to leave the husk of flesh behind to bear the pain and anger. To go deep inside where his wrath couldn't touch her, but it never did.

He merely nodded and sheathed the knife. "Very good," he sounded neither angry nor disappointed, but rather something different. "My captain doesn't keep slaves as you know, but thralls. You'll pledge yourself to him, do you know what that means?"

"Yes," she answered, he was to be her newest in a string of masters. Doreah recited what was expected of her, which included keeping his secrets, laying down her life for him, and to serve him by any means, he asks. The spymaster was silent throughout her answer. She heard him opening another drawer, but she kept going, going on about her body was but an extension of his wants and wills. She only stopped when she heard a loud jangle. Doreah looked to see that it was a coin purse.

"You've been misinformed," he told her simply. "It's as I said you are the captain's thrall not slave," he gestured to the coin purse. "This is yours."

She didn't make any move to take it. Doreah sensed a trap.

"A thrall is not a slave," he told her, as if expecting her to believe there was a distinction between the two, and then her eyes drifted to the coinpurse, and a single thought started to grow. "Unlike your former master, Lord Dagon respects the treaty between Braavos and Pentos, and maintains a good friendship with the city of Braavos, with their shipwrights, merchants and Iron Bank. He'll not see it inconvenienced by something as trivial as a few coins. This," he gestured to the coin purse, "Is yours Doreah, because there are no slaves in Pentos."

Doreah hesitated. She sensed truth in his words and saw no deception in those pale eyes. She trusted her own skills, and slowly went for the purse, but she was prepared if it was a sprung trap, but she wasn't stopped. She reluctantly picked it up, noticing its weight, and the sound of coins jangling within. Doreah flicked her eyes towards the spymaster to see him nodding. His lips nearly crooked upwards, as if amused by her antics. Her finger trembled when she loosened the laces and when she looked inside, she nearly dropped it. There inside she saw glints of silver, several of them.

"This," His voice pulled her eyes away from her newfound silver and back to the parchment that she couldn't read, "Is your contract," he told her. "It says you will serve the captain by the means of being a handmaiden to his wife, the Princess Daenerys Targaryen for the duration of his expedition to Asshai and back," She assumed he was reading the words on the parchment. "Upon the return to Pentos, you'll be given the rest of your payment and whatever other gifts or additional payments to reflect your service."

"Additional?" The word slipped out, too surprised to stop herself.

"Yes, the captain rewards his thralls and good service," he answered, "And so do I."

"And then?" She asked, realizing it made no mention of what was to become of her once the expedition was concluded. Doreah expected she'd be given back to the magister, her task done. What other use would the princess have of a bed slave who taught her all she knew?

"You'll be free."

"Free?" She blinked.

"Yes," he answered mildly, "If you wish."

She did, but she didn't say it. His pale eyes seemed to read her face as if her desires were written on her face as clear as this contract. "Make your mark here," he tapped to the bottom of the parchment. "You'll also make a vow of loyalty to the captain and princess, with me and Gwyn Farwynd present, thus swearing your loyalty in both ink and action," he explained. "I don't think I need to tell you what happens if you break it."

"No, m'lord," She'd seen enough punished slaves, tortured and killed.

"Good," he said pleasantly.

Doreah took the quill and went to where he had indicated. She didn't understand anything on the parchment, or what she was doing as she dragged the quill across it. She left behind an inky black trail of swirls and squiggles. She had never had to make her mark before. She had seen others sign their names, the Magister often did for his various businesses but he also used stamps and other symbols too. When she finished, she looked down on what she did, wondering if it meant anything. She handed the quill back to him, and saw his raised eyebrows, but he said nothing. He then made what she assumed was his own mark or signature before returning his attention to her.

"Though you'll serve as Princess Daenerys' handmaiden, I may have use of you."

"I understand," she'd not squander this opportunity of freedom, this sliver of hope that awaited her. If she had to pleasure the spymaster to help secure it then, she'd do so, and every day if she must.

"No," he chuckled, "I don't think you do." His wry tone had her look at those colorless eyes. "I do not want a bed slave, but something else," he told her, "Something better."

She frowned, her brow furrowed, slips that she couldn't let happen. Doreah had been taught to hide how she felt, to ignore it. Otherwise who would want to fuck a miserable whore? She had to maintain the performance that he was a good lover and she was a willing one. It meant she knew when to smile and what to say. That she could never let even a whit of what she thought or felt to surface, to be seen in her expression, or posture.

"And I'll pay good coin too," he finished, and then his eyes moved past her. "There you are."

Doreah turned to see a pretty, plump girl was standing behind her. "You'll be shown to the quarters that you'll be using and sharing for your brief stay in the captain's manse before we set off for Asshai," he said, "And you'll be sent for and then escorted when it's time for you to to the Magister's manse to begin your lessons with the princess."

"I understand," she said, even though there were parts she still didn't, including what it was she could do to help the spymaster, but it would have to wait, as she knew when she was dismissed. "Thank you, m'lord," Doreah curtseyed, and this time his eyes were on her, he gave a bare tilt of her head, and then went back to his work.

She had come in as a slave but was leaving as a thrall with her own coin and an end in sight.

"Is the leviathan the largest?"

The two of them returned from the balcony where his sea eagle, whom he named Sam had enjoyed their attention before taking flight into the night sky. Dagon thumbed through his pile of parchments before picking something and then sliding it across the desk. "I'm honestly not quite sure which is larger."

Daenerys barely registered his words as she looked at the drawing. "This?" She gasped, pointing at it.

"Yes," he smiled proudly.

Her eyes went back to the picture and Dany figured he earned that smile. Grond himself was difficult to comprehend with his enormity, she was not sure she'd fare any better when she eventually saw this. "Where?"

"Aways from us," Dagon took back the parchment containing the beautifully detailed sketch of the creature and returned it to its place in the pile. "Do you want to know what it's doing right now?" She nodded, "Hunting."

Never had a word sounded so ominous as it did in his tone. She imagined the creature on the drawing, coming to life, moving to hunt, to kill, and it was terrifying. "Well," she pivoted, mostly in jest when she asked. "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"There is," He answered, "My spymaster has a lovely singing voice."

"Princess," that was another voice, an intrusion. It rippled over her laughter, pulling her out of the memory from last night and back into the present. "It's done."

Daenerys was no longer on Inevitable, but back at Illyrio's manse. His servants stood off to the side, finished with their work on the dress she'd be wearing to tonight's feast. They took positions so that they wouldn't be seen in the mirror where she stood in front of, to go over her dress. Atop her shoulders was elegant dragon metalwork, with their mouths open, their jaws glittering with diamonds for their teeth. Her sleeves were red silk with rubies sewn into it to resemble a gout of dragonflame spewing from the dragons' mouths. The rest of her dress was black, made with a more conservative cut than the last few ones she wore.

It was another beautiful dress from the Magister. It made her think of Dagon's gift from last night, the sixth of seven gifts. He had given her chests of clothes. Dresses from Lys, gowns from Qarth, silky shifts from Asshai. As well as materials to make more. There was Myrish lace, flowing silks from Yi Ti, fine velvets and rich damasks, the best in all the Free Cities. As well as other clothes for their travels. He had doubted that she'd want to wear dresses every day of their voyage. Those clothes included beaded silk tunics, trousers, and skirts as well as some outfits and material from his home.

"From a fish?" she had remembered her incredulousness when he told her of its source and process. She had never heard of such material, this thread he said his family had perfected long ago.

He had nodded and explained it came from their slime, and that when it was stretched and dried it turned into a soft, fibrous thread that could be skillfully woven into very durable and tough fabric. Stronger than boiled leather, he further claimed it had protected past Farwynds from even sword thrusts and dagger cuts. Daenerys wasn't interested in testing its toughness, and when she said as much, he laughed.

She returned her attention to Illyrio's servants who had been patiently and quietly waiting for her reaction. "Thank you," she wanted to allay any concern that may have risen within them at her reflective silence. She saw their shoulders lax and their smiles seemed more natural before they hid their faces behind bent heads.

"Princess," Illyrio stepped into the room in waddling strides. "Each day your beauty grows," he complimented her. "Lord Dagon is a fortunate man."

"I too am blessed," she replied, thinking her husband to be handsome and strong. And free, excited to start her new life with Dagon.

"Ah," he smiled, "Young love, I recall its own hold on me many years ago," he then gestured to his immense size, "A slimmer man," his eyes twinkled, "As hard as that is to believe." His mirth turned wistful in the brief silence that followed, but its hold didn't last, brushing it away with another one of his empty smiles. "One of my servants has picked up the sword," he said mildly, as if he hadn't already spent a small fortune for her and her brother. And he was still giving, she thought, this dress, and now this sword.

It was an ironborn tradition to exchange swords between the bride and groom. The groom would present a sword to his bride with the intention for it to be passed onto their future sons while the bride would give one to the groom, to symbolize the shift from her being under her father's protection to her husband's.

A small part of her worried that her marriage to Dagon would be doomed because she and her brother weren't following the traditions of his people. It had been her brother's responsibility to secure the sword, but he couldn't be bothered to commission one let alone retrieve it. They were no longer so poor and desperate, unable to afford the sword and the expected bauble that too was to be given to the groom. Viserys now had chests of gold more than enough to procure the few items needed for her wedding with Dagon, but he didn't.

"Thank you, Magister," she couldn't stomach her brother's indifference. "I'll reimburse you," Daenerys offered despite herself having little to call her own. Most of what she possessed had been gifts from Dagon during their week courtship. Still, she'd insist if she had to. She'd not allow her brother's sudden stinginess to ruin something so important to her.

"There's no need, Princess," he waved away her words with his fat fingers. "Your brother already did," He chuckled, causing his many chins to quiver, amused by her reaction.

"Viserys paid?" She repeated, dumbstruck.

Illyrio's head bobbed side to side like a fat, bearded cobra. "Yes," he was still smiling. "He just isn't aware of his generosity." A glint in his eyes conveying what his words didn't.

Daenerys understood and felt herself smiling. Not feeling the least bit upset at what was being hinted at. She was more embarrassed at her brother's entitlement, and his strangled grip on all his newly gifted gold. "He has my thanks."

"I'm sure he'd tell you he was honored and happy to help you." He looked like he was going to say more, but a servant came forward, whispering something into his ear. Illyrio nodded and dismissed the servant before he seemed to be finished speaking. "Princess, my guests have arrived," he held out his meaty arm which she took.

"And what guests are these?" She hadn't realized the magister was entertaining other guests. She gripped his arm tentatively, feeling the fatty rolls of skin and sweaty silks beneath her fingers. His heavy and constant use of perfume made her nose twitch, threatening to coax a sneeze from her. She fought against it.

"A counselor for your brother," He told her, leading her into a room where they were waiting. "Princess, allow me to introduce to you, Ser Jorah Mormont," Illyrio said, "And his wife, Lady Lynesse Mormont, the youngest daughter of Lord Leyton Hightower."

"I don't see my gold," Viserys said when they were escorted into a room within Dagon's vast manse. They had just arrived at his home where a sumptuous feast was to be held. After greeting the other guests with them, Dagon had her and her brother follow him while the others made their way to their seats in his great hall.

Daenerys was quietly relieved that her betrothed didn't react to her brother's petulance. He shames us, she thought of her brother, unseemly and greedy.

"There is no gold today, Your Grace."

She nearly winced, a cautioning peal inside her head of her brother's impending wrath. Wake the dragon, she was all too familiar with her brother's anger. Daenerys discreetly took a step back, instincts moving before her own thoughts, a way from Viserys and closer to Dagon . He noticed too, she thought, grateful when he took a comforting step towards her. His tall form serving as her shield.

"No gold?" The laughter that followed fell sharply against her ears. "You said," he raised his shaking finger at her betrothed. The accusation plain in his purple eyes, despite him being too cautious to say it openly.

"I know what I said," Dagon replied calmly. Seemingly bored at her brother's rising temper, taking him in as one did a fussy housecat. "I said you'd be just as rewarded as your sister, " he said, "And the last six days I showed that with gold, but today, the last day, I decided a different gift, a better gift would be more proper." One of his thralls had slipped inside the room holding a box. "This is more valuable than gold, Your Grace."

"Better than gold?" Viserys dismissed his words and his offer with a barely contained growl. "You presume this marriage is set," he gestured to his sister, "But I am your king," his warning was clear.

"Exactly, Your Grace," Dagon was impervious to her brother's threats or rage. "And what does every king need?" He asked while opening the box to present what was inside to him.

It had been years since she had seen it, but she still knew what it was. It was their mother's crown.

His anger faded in a blink, his face crumpling. And there was something in his eyes she had not seen for a long time. A softness that had perished all those years ago, but even when presented with what was rightfully his, he hesitated. She looked lower to see his hands were trembling.

"Your Grace," Dagon bowed his head, "this belongs to you."

A/N: Dagon paying his Pentoshi thralls is like if a multi-billionaire gave his fifty employees a check for 50,000 dollars. It's life changing money for them, but not really even a drop in the bucket for him and his wealth.

I also just headcanon that ironborn are very big on gift giving. With the ironborn being more independent, with more freedoms especially with the autonomy captains can wield. I think it's expected for ironborn to give gifts or gold to keep men loyal and to recruit/secure new followers.

Mr. Martin is not the only one who can name his characters after the illustrious muppets. Sam the sea eagle is named after Sam Eagle, the most patriotic of muppets: It's the American way. Ahem, I mean it's the Ironborn way.

Now don't expect Viserys to suddenly change/be redeemed with the crown being given to him. I just wanted to try to show the different various layers these characters can have.

The 'fish slime thread' is based on the Hagfish with some obvious changes b/c this is an AU fantasy world so why not. I also like giving more glimpses of what the Farwynds are up to and other ways they make use of their vast knowledge of the seas.

Since this an AU I went with Ramsay's TV appearance. And the actor who plays him is a good singer, so I couldn't resist including that, bc I found the idea amusing of him singing while he carries out his duties as Dagon's spymaster.

Until next time,

-Spectre4hire

P.S: If all goes to plan the next chapter will include the wedding. And since this an AU I'm going with my own take on what an ironborn wedding could look like. So lower your expectations because you've been warned.