Magister Illyrio Mopatis did not pay his guards to spy or eavesdrop, pry or ask questions. Haran was doing none of those things, certainly not when the old Westerosi knight passed him for the third time that morning. His mind was a blank canvas, no blot or blemish there to cause distraction. His old master used to say a good guard was akin to a blade forged six feet tall, big, bright and eye-catching; there to deter the bold and the stupid. Its edge should be rarely used, but still kept sharp, for when it is needed there can be no hesitation.
If the old man gave him cause, Haran knew he would not hesitate. His eyes never passed over the knight, giving him no reason to suspect he was being watched. They stayed fixed on the middle distance, and did not stray. He knew what was expected of him, what he was paid for, what he was made for.
The wooden staff clacked against the plaza's cobbles, the Westerosi eyed him for half a heartbeat before disappearing from view. Haran shifted the grip on the shaft of his spear, eyes staring straight ahead, just as he'd been taught.
Barristan Selmy was restless.
He slept less and less with age, but last night had been particularly fruitless. He felt a mite foolish admitting it, but he thought the likeliest cause was nerves. Ser Barristan could not recall the last time he had felt nervous. Pyke? The Trident? To him, it was a sensation reserved for the eve of battle, and yet it had come to him as he lay abed last night.
There was no danger here, no threat of death, Selmy was safe behind the thick walls of the magister's manse. It had pestered him no end, making his insomnia only worsen, but eventually Ser Barristan realised the cause.
The Saduleon and its sister ships sailed from Pentos today. Ser Barristan was leaving.
The voyage across the narrow sea had been over quickly, five days all told. Selmy's trip to Qarth was a far different, and far more daunting prospect. Months of travel, starting from Pentos, with stops in Tyrosh, Lys, Volantis, and New Ghis, before at last arriving at their destination. It would be the longest Ser Barristan had spent at sea by a long distance, and he was most grateful for a sturdy constitution. There would be other hardships to face, but not having to fear seasickness was a sure relief.
Ser Barristan would sail on the great cog Saduleon, captained by the Pentoshi Groleo. He had met the captain and his crew briefly, and they seemed an amiable bunch with ample experience to safely traverse the waters of the Summer Sea. The only other non-crew member travelling aboard would be a pit fighter by the name of Strong Belwas - a huge Ghiscari eunuch with nut-brown skin and a massive belly dappled with pale scars. He was heading to Qarth to offer his services as a protector to Queen Daenerys, much in the same way as Selmy, though he was not sure the two men could look more different. The pit fighter seemed mostly content either eating or fighting. A simple outlook for a simple man, Selmy thought, not unkindly.
His host, the Magister Illyrio Mopatis, was an altogether different matter. When they met, Lord Varys had been effusive in his praise of the fat man, but Ser Barristan remained less than convinced. The magister was a trader of spices, gemstones, dragon bone, and cheddar. Selmy liked him little and trusted him even less, yet he had been true to his word thus far in their dealings, and he held faith in his own value to Mopatis's goals enough to feel secure in his safety. Selmy moved through the magister's world now. A world of secrets and subterfuge, of plots and mummery - one Ser Barristan felt ill at ease within, yet must navigate all the same.
The fear that such unsavoury types were with Queen Daenerys or would be with her soon would not leave Ser Barristan's mind. She needed loyal voices to guide her back to her throne, not those driven by greed or control who would use the girl as nothing more than a steed to ride into the halls of power. In fairness, Daenerys had survived the ordeals of life within a Dothraki khalasar, and, according to the magister's missives, had even thrived in her role as khaleesi at Khal Drogo's side.
Mayhaps I afford her too little credit, Selmy mused. In his mind, the queen was a delicate little thing in need of protection, but was he wrong? Daenerys had spent her life on the streets of the Free Cities fleeing from Robert's knives, it was not the sort of upbringing to breed a dainty princess in.
Yet any faint reassurance Ser Barristan might take from that was lost thanks to her brother's death. He had learned the grisly details from Magister Illyrio. Prince Viserys had broken sacred Dothraki tradition by drawing naked steel in their capital city of Vaes Dothrak, before using the sword to threaten his sister and the khal's unborn son. This had earned the boy a gruesome death, molten gold poured over his head so no blood was spilled.
It left a pit in his stomach. The queen's own flesh and blood, a man Khal Drogo had agreed to seat upon the Iron Throne, slain by his own hands in front of the girl. So long as Daenerys was surrounded by such savages, each day that passed was another one she was in danger. His desperation was fuel, and his path was finally clear.
Daenerys Targaryen.
A monarch worth serving.
Ser Barristan tried to picture the young queen, but as hard as he tried he could not stop seeing Arya in her place. He knew what he ought to be seeing, a girl of fourteen with silver-gold hair and violet eyes, yet the girl's hair kept darkening, and the colour drained from her eyes, until the long face of Arya Stark was looking back at him coldly, judging him heartless and guilty.
He sighed. "There was nothing I could have done," said Ser Barristan, speaking his thoughts into the empty courtyard. A few birds perched in branches high above his head chirped their replies.
Selmy kept walking, hoping to outpace his painful thoughts. His staff clacked lightly against the courtyard's floor, its rhythm helped to soothe his mind. Deep green plants hung over the cobbled path, with here and there a bright flower that stood against the verdant crowd. The cobbles soon gave way to hard-packed dirt with gravel that crunched beneath his boots.
The manse's gardens were larger than those found in the Red Keep, a great swathe of plant life from all parts of Essos. Gravel paths snaked through the greenery like roots through soil, servants walked across them silently, tending to the riotous throng of flowers, shrubs, and trees. Like all parts of Magister Illyrio's world, it was overly vast. Ser Barristan would have gotten lost half a hundred times had the fat man not given him a tour on his first morning at the manse.
The gardens were bright and sweet-smelling, opulently preened and lavishly displayed, though Selmy's eyes were always drawn to the thick brick walls with their iron-spiked toppings. That spoke of the magister, too, and what it had to say did not sit well with him at all. It put him in mind of the trap plants found in far-flung Sothoryos, who lure in prey with enticing aromas before closing their jagged mouths tight once their meal was secure. Ser Barristan looked once more at the wall's iron spikes, and saw them anew as the fangs of a predator waiting to strike. The only break he'd seen in the brickwork had been a metal gate hidden beneath a thicket of green ivy, near invisible if one were not aware of it already. The plant grew extensively across the walls of the manse, crawling across bricks like the fingers of some great green giant.
Magister Illyrio had already begun to break his fast when Ser Barristan arrived. He was seated beneath a canopy overlooking the gardens, with Pentos and the harbour sprawling out beyond them. Selmy's eyes were drawn to the view, but his companion seemed far more enamoured with the contents of his plate. Mopatis had just scooped the flesh of his boiled egg out of its shell when he noticed the knight enter.
"I hope you rested well before your journey, ser knight." He popped the spoonful into his mouth, and swallowed. "It shall be a tiring voyage, make no mistake, but we all must suffer in our efforts for the realm, my friend."
Selmy watched the fat man drizzle honey onto a slice of freshly-baked bread, and wondered what sort of suffering he had ever endured. Little and less , he decided. Suffering is a tale to tell over fine wine and rich cheese to men like him.
"Change ne'er comes without strife, magister."
"Just so," Mopatis said, "and forty-thousand Dothraki screamers can cause an awful lot of strife," he added, chuckling. "Ah, what a sight that shall be. Queen Daenerys with her khal at her side, sweeping aside the squabbling kings and bringing peace and justice to Westeros at long last. It makes an old fool's heart like mine swell with pride, yes."
Did he say … "Kings?" asked Ser Barristan.
The fat man inclined his head. "Four of them, all told. I believe you are already well acquainted with King Joffrey, ser knight. The boy has been joined in royalty by his two uncles."
Selmy was stunned. "Both of them?" He had expected Lord Stannis to announce his kingship eventually, but hearing his brother had done the same was truly a shock. "Renly has no claim. Stannis is the elder by near a decade."
The magister sipped his wine. "Mayhaps the Tyrell swords at Lord Renly's back have emboldened him. A hundred-thousand soldiers is a most impressive dowry, wouldn't you agree?"
Ser Barristan shook his head. Renly was ever one for flights of fancy, but this? It reeked of Mace Tyrell. "'Tis a worrying precedent to set. The eldest male must inherit first, lest we devolve into savagery. After all, what would stop Renly's second or third born son from following in his father's footsteps upon his death?"
Magister Illyrio bit into a grilled pepper with a crunch. "All the more reason to find our queen, I am thinking."
Joffrey, Stannis, and Renly. Ser Barristan spoke up, "That is only three. Who is the fourth?"
The magister gave a faint smile. "Robb Stark, The King in the North."
Ser Barristan ran a hand through his beard, hoping to mask the blinding shock he felt. There had been no King in the North for almost three hundred years. Gods be good, how much has Westeros changed since I left? His thoughts turned quickly to Arya, precisely where he didn't want them to go. "It appears you have a princess residing with you."
Mopatis shrugged. "It is not the first time, my friend."
"This surely changes things," he said. "The girl is royalty now, she should be with her brother the king."
The magister left a silence as he peeled an egg. "Lady Arya is safe here, regardless of her title. She shall return to Westeros with Queen Daenerys."
Selmy shook his head. "To negotiate with her royal brother on behalf of another monarch? That is folly, magister. A lord swearing allegiance to a queen is far different to a king putting aside their crown."
Magister Illyrio chuckled. "You speak of folly, ser, I shall counter with history. A Targaryen crossed the narrow sea and faced a King in the North before, correct?"
"A different Targaryen," Ser Barristan countered. "With dragons."
The magister bowed slightly. "Just so. Some say the boy only took the crown from a lack of worthy choices, mayhaps Queen Daenerys can offer him one." He spread his hands. "Regardless, the girl shall be safe, and lack for nothing. A better fate than travelling alone across a war-torn land, yes. You shall see her again before you know it, my friend."
Ser Barristan tried to picture Arya Stark sitting patiently in the magister's manse, it was a fruitless effort. "The girl is wild, magister, she does not strike me as one to wait patiently against her will."
"A fair point," Mopatis conceded. "I cannot say I've had many ten-year-old girls draw steel against me." He chuckled, wobbling as he did. "Yet such edges can be smoothed out with time."
He narrowed his eyes. "Smoothed out?"
"That is what you Westerosi say, yes? Training, teachings, what have you," he waved a hand dismissively. "Such ways are well-known. The girl is a highborn lady, it is best she acts like one when the queen arrives, I am thinking."
Ser Barristan felt his stomach tighten. "What sort of teachings?"
Illyrio paused, and he watched the old knight carefully. Has he lost his nerve? he wondered. We have no use for a legend turned craven in his old age … "If it is as you say, and the girl refuses to settle, discipline shall be introduced. None more than is necessary, but discipline nonetheless. Lady Arya must be reminded of her station in life, and what role she must play for the betterment of her home." He smiled disarmingly. "I am no sadist, to take pleasure in such things, but needs must for the good of the realm. I have heard it said the girl has always been … difficult . No doubt Lady Stark and her son will be most grateful for my efforts, and should some ill befall the girl in her struggles to be domesticated, then I do not imagine the king would miss his true sister all that much when he meets her well-trained replacement. Girls change much at her age, and her make and measure is common enough, I am thinking."
Some ill? Replacement? Selmy choked back his anger. "And if she escapes before then?"
"My walls are high and thick."
"So were those in the Red Keep," Ser Barristan countered. "What happens if she boards a ship again and sails far away?"
The fat man flashed a yellow-toothed smile. "Pentos is my city, ser knight. No-one leaves her without my knowledge."
Magister Illyrio Mopatis did not pay his guards to spy or eavesdrop, pry or ask questions. Haran was doing none of those things, certainly not when the old Westerosi knight passed him for the fourth time that morning. His eyes stayed fixed on the middle distance, and did not stray. He knew what was expected of him, what he was paid for, what he was made for.
The wooden staff whistled through the air, and cracked against the eunuch's bald head. His dark eyes did not leave their spot, even as his body crumpled and darkness crept across his vision. Haran was unconscious by the time his chain of iron keys was lifted from his belt. He did not feel a thing.
The red comet burned above them, a raw red slash against the blue sky. Ser Barristan glanced up at it now, and felt something within himself settle. It was a guide from the gods, pointing east towards Daenerys, but Arya's quarters were in the same direction, nestled within the eastern side of the manse. They are my destiny, he realised then. Both of them. Selmy quickened his pace, for both girls needed his protection, both girls were in danger.
His haste took him into a roofed courtyard and up a flight of stairs, towards Arya's chamber. Ser Barristan knew the way, and knew of the guard posted outside the door, as well. He approached slowly, so as not to draw suspicion, though Selmy knew he would not have long until the last guard was discovered. The girl's chambers overlooked the small courtyard he had just passed through, with the back window facing the city on the other side. Ser Barristan stopped at the large polished oak door, the guard stood by it was bald with a rounded face. That bald, rounded face turned to look at him.
Selmy cleared his throat. "Might I see her before I depart?" he asked in his best High Valyrian. The trip east would allow him to practice it if naught else.
The guard gave a curt nod and moved to open the door, pulling the iron handle backwards and causing a low rumble from the wood. Arya Stark was in her chambers … just about. She had fashioned a rope from her linen bedding and it had been draped out of her window. One skinny leg was slung over the windowsill, her head snapped back at the noise of their entrance, her grey eyes went wide as saucers.
Uh-oh.
The guard reacted quickest, shouting something in High Valyrian she couldn't understand, and moving into the room. Arya chose to go for a quick exit, swinging her other leg over and starting her descent. She gripped the linen tight, and hoped she had tied it well enough for it to hold her weight. But no sooner had she looped her legs around her makeshift rope than the guard took hold of the other end and tugged it back hard, sending Arya skidding back onto the cold tile floor of her chambers.
The girl groaned in pain after landing, and Ser Barristan knew he had to act. He moved quickly towards the guard, and brought his staff down hard against his back, forcing the eunuch onto one knee. He cursed under his breath, for he had hoped the blow would knock him prone.
"Stupid old man," the guard growled, reaching for his sword. Selmy swung again, wood met fingers, and the eunuch cried out in pain. Desperate, the guard pushed up from one knee and lunged at Ser Barristan. He spun away in a swirl of robes, and put his back to the open door, poised to dodge another charge when a white sheet twisted tight suddenly looped itself around the guard's neck.
The eunuch jerked back suddenly, panicked at his airway's sudden obstruction. Selmy saw the scrawny arms of Arya Stark tensed and straining to keep the linen in place, and he knew they would not win out. Ser Barristan aimed another blow directly for the guard's chest, hoping to knock the wind from his lungs and double him over. The strike did just that, sending the eunuch to his knees, wheezing. Selmy moved quickly to Arya's side and took charge of the fabric, holding it taught until the guard's body went still.
Ser Barristan slumped backwards, and slowly caught his breath. Selmy shook his head, and cursed his age and his rotten luck.
The small voice of Arya Stark came from behind him. "Why did you help me?"
He sighed, and it was the sorry sigh of an old, old man. Ser Barristan could feel the girl's eyes staring at him, and he knew he had to answer. "Because …" Selmy wanted desperately to explain himself, explain his failures, explain his hopes and dreams and reasons, but the child deserved better than that. "Because it was right ."
Ser Barristan turned to the girl, saw anger and frustration on her long face. She balled her hands into fists. "You're … confusing," she finished.
Selmy chuckled. "You've called me worse."
"What are you doing here?" asked Arya angrily. "You're meant to be sailing off to find your stupid queen."
He sat up, got his staff from where he'd dropped it, and nodded. "A ship awaits me in the harbour as we speak."
"Then why aren't you on it? Why are you here?"
Ser Barristan smiled. "Because here is where I need to be."
Arya screwed up her face. "Well … it can't be!"
"Why not?"
She waved a hand at the open window. "Because here's where I'm making my escape!"
He looked down at the crumpled pile of white sheets. "A clever notion, I'll grant you. Where did you come up with it?"
A bit of the fight left the girl, and her ears reddened. "It was from a story, one of Old Nan's ones. It was about a boy who had to escape from an evil wizard's tower, so he used his linens to scale down from a window and win his freedom."
"I see. 'Tis a bright idea, a pity it would never have worked."
Arya folded her arms, and huffed. "It would've! The sheets almost reached the bottom so I'd have been fine!"
"That is not why your escape would have failed, my lady. I fear you would have made the same mistake I did, and faced the same fate."
Her grey eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"We both forgot what city we are in, and who truly controls it. The magister is a prince in all but name; there is only one ship docked in the harbour he will not stop, child, and it does not sail west."
His ship, Arya realised, that sails far, far from home. "I can't," she whispered.
"You can," the old knight insisted. "You just have to be strong."
"But …" she felt tears welling just thinking of them, "my family …"
Something in Ser Barristan's expression shifted. "Your brother is a king, now."
Arya gasped. "What?"
"Robb," he explained, "he is King in the North. Chosen by his lords and his knights."
Her mind was spinning. Robb is a king? Arya pictured him as she'd seen him last, with snowflakes melting in his hair. The memory felt like a bolt in her chest. "How can that be?"
"There was no one else. Joffrey killed your father, Renly has no true claim to the throne, and his elder brother Stannis declared his kingship late. Robb and his bannermen came south to free Lord Eddard from imprisonment, but his death left them without a clear goal. Secession from the Iron Throne has filled that void for now, but it will not last. Robb must bend the knee eventually, but only to a monarch he deems worthy. It is my hope that Daenerys Targaryen can be this monarch, and … I would add your voice to mine regarding the matter when the time comes, Arya. If you agree, of course."
She sniffed. "You mean it, don't you? I can't go home …"
"I would that it were not so, child, but yes. Any ship you board alone will be stopped in the harbour, caught and pulled back to shore, or boarded at its first stop for you to be dragged off it by the magister's men."
"But what if he stops your ship?"
"He won't," the old knight said firmly. "Illyrio will not risk delaying our journey, nor will he risk my wroth. He needs me just as much as I need him. We are at a stalemate, of sorts, and it is within this impasse that I will smuggle you from here."
Arya chewed her lip, still not convinced. "But …" she trailed off, uncertain of her own uncertainty. It was all so much to take in …
Selmy knelt before Arya, and put a hand on her shoulder. "Hear me now, child, and you may never need hear me again. I want you to come east with me. I wished anything but not long ago, I feared the dangers I was certain to face and wished to spare you of them, but the true danger is here, my lady, and he is far from a simple cheesemonger.
"All I have ever done, I have done in the hopes of keeping you safe, and getting you back to your family hale and whole. I had thought this manse, far from the fighting, was the best place for you, but I was wrong. My error could have cost you dearly, Arya, and for that I am truly sorry." Selmy dropped his voice. "Mopatis is not the man I thought he was, and I fear what plans he has for Queen Daenerys. He is no friend of ours, Arya, know that. We must reach the queen and warn her of him, of his true nature. Daenerys has an army of Dothraki at her back, so the magister will not dare defy her when she tells him that you are to be returned safely to your home. I am valuable to his plans, but the queen is priceless."
"Would she really do that?"
"It is my devout hope. We will go to her, tell her of the ills done by House Lannister, of a kingdom at war with itself and not a shred of justice to be found. If she is good and true then she will swear to see you home safely there and then."
Arya thought of all she had heard of the Mad King. She is his daughter … "What if the queen isn't good and true?"
Ser Barristan's mouth tightened. "There is that chance, aye, but we know for a certainty that the magister is not good. Would you sooner wait here with him?"
"No," she blurted out. "Never. But still …"
The old knight nodded. "I will not say the same thoughts have not crossed my mind, Arya; that is why I propose we do not uncover ourselves right away. Instead, we shall watch, and wait, and all being well have no fear revealing our true names to her; if not, then she shall have never known us truly when we quietly depart." He squeezed her shoulder. "It shall be like the story we kept to in King's Landing, and on the Young Lady."
"So you'd be Arstan and I'd be 'Arry?"
"Perhaps … though the orphan boy has no real reason to travel so far east." Ser Barristan ran a hand through his beard. "But a young page hungry for fame and glory might …"
A page? "What's a page?"
"A knight might keep a squire, to help with his weapons and armour, tend to his horse, and even accompany him into battle," he explained. "A page is a step below that, if you like; they serve the knight in less intensive jobs, be it fetching food or serving his wine, and they do not enter the battlefield, for they would be too young to do so."
"I can fight in a battle!" She insisted loudly.
"One day, perhaps."
She screwed up her face and cried out, "I'm almost one-and-ten!"
Selmy smiled. "You are fierce, girl."
Arya crossed her arms. I don't want to be fierce, she decided, I want to fight!
"I fear you have missed the wider point," he replied. "A page is not just a mere servant forbidden from entering battle. It is a position of education; a place from which a highborn son might learn swordplay from knight and squire alike."
"You'll train me?" Arya asked in a quiet voice, as if the offer were some skittish animal she might've startled into fleeing.
"At least until we reveal ourselves to the queen. Whether she would want a highborn girl training for knighthood under her watch, I cannot say."
She nodded, seeing the vision come together in her mind. I'll come back stronger, as strong as Robb! And I'll stick Needle through Joffrey's stupid face, and the queen's, and the Hound's, and Ser Ilyn's, and the fat man, too! They'll all pay! Arya looked at Ser Barristan, and nodded. "I'll go, ser. I'll help you get your queen."
Relief washed over his wrinkled face, and the old knight ran a hand through Arya's shortened hair. "Thank you, child. Thank you." He rose. "You will need a name."
Arya frowned. "Can I not be 'Arry?"
"The name is known to the magister and his men," explained Ser Barristan.
Of course it is, stupid! She thought of what she wanted the page to be. The page would be strong. The page would be brave. The page would never, ever run. At that, Arya had a name. "Mycah," she said, rubbing away her tears. "I'll be Mycah."
Magister Illyrio Mopatis turned from the window, and sighed. He had watched silently from above as Ser Barristan and Lady Arya stole out of the old, hidden gate and made their way to the harbour. The escape had been well-planned, and would require punishments to be meted out on the guards who'd let it happen. A small tragedy when held against what he had lost.
"A pity," the magister said. "We could have done much together, Lady Stark."
His seneschal Tregio hovered at his side. "Shall I send word to Captain Groleo?"
He dismissed the seneschal with a wave. "Don't bother. Let the old fool have his victory; if the gods are good we shan't see either of them again." Mopatis smiled, and it was a wicked thing, indeed. "If not, Prince Aegon has been raised to understand justice most well, my friend."