"Is she pretty?"
The old squire ran a hand through his long white beard. "Beautiful … or so they say."
Arya was leaning against Saduleon's railing, watching as the city slowly came into view. "Father said all the Targaryens were beautiful. Is that so?" Bran had been obsessed with Aemon the Dragonknight, and Sansa was most interested in his sister, Queen Naerys. Arya liked Nymeria best, but she was Rhoynish, not Valyrian.
Whitebeard nodded in reply. "You recall the Lyseni, don't you? The blood of Old Valyria flows there strongest in all of Essos, but House Targaryen drew an unbroken line to the dragonlords of old, something none in Lys can lay claim to. In them lay the beauty of a people ancient and powerful beyond all reckoning, and one need only look upon a member of their house to realise it." He looked out to the city, perhaps picturing the little queen. "They were more than just beautiful, child … they were beauty itself."
She followed Whitebeard's eyes to where they lingered on Qarth, the Queen of Cities, and chewed her bottom lip. Even from this distance, it was a rainbow of colours utterly unlike any city she had seen on her long journey east. Arya cast her mind back to the beginning of their trip, many months ago when she was 'Arry the orphan boy coming into Pentos' harbour. You could drop the whole seafront into the Qartheen one and it would barely make a splash. Pentos had seemed so strange to her back then, but now its red-tiled houses and stout brick walls seemed almost quaint by comparison. This is a city one sails across the world for, Arya decided as she watched Qarth draw near. This is a city worth the wait.
"Is Qarth beautiful, too?" She thought it was, but was curious to hear the old squire's thoughts.
He looked back down at her, blue eyes pensive. "So they say."
Arya tilted her head. "And what do you say?"
"I've never been," he replied, "so I can only repeat what I have heard from others."
"Oh," she said stupidly. "Well, what else do they say, then?"
A smile cut through the great beard he wore. "If you ask a Qartheen they will tell you the city is the birthplace of civilization, but say that to a maester in Oldtown and they'll laugh in your face. They might do the same if you call it the centre of the world, but that will not stop Qarth's people from boasting of it as such. None doubt its magnificence, however, and Lomas Longstrider named its triple walls as one of his sixteen wonders in his second book for good reason. It is a city of merchants, made rich by trade, with the Summer Sea to its west and the Jade Sea to its east. All ships hoping to taste the riches of the far east stop in Qarth there and back again, and the merchants reap the rewards in gold. Its people are happy and rich, and Qarth has not tasted war since the Century of Blood, near four hundred years ago." Whitebeard's face darkened. "I fear this explains their reticence to aid the queen," he said sourly. "They may see her as little more than a troublemaker hoping to pull Qarth into a war it has no interest in entering. Westeros is a world away, and Daenerys has little to offer in incentive."
"She has dragons," Arya said in reply. "The sight of them alone would be enough to have thousands fighting for her back home."
"Back home," he allowed, "but not in Qarth. What was it Groleo's friend called them? An afternoon's entertainment."
Arya didn't want it to be true. "He also called them a wonder of the world."
"Qarth has no lack of wonders, child. Beyond the triple walls lies the Hall of a Thousand Thrones where the Pureborn rule, descended from ancient kings and queens of the Qaathi Empire; the Temple of Memory sits to the east with its floating oaks; the warlocks have their centre of power in the House of the Undying to the north, where they sip their evening's shade and speak in riddles of past and future; and the Garden of Gehane stretches out to the west, and is said to hold every species of plant native to Essos within its brass-spiked walls." He looked at her for a moment, and smirked. "You do not believe me."
Arya shrugged. "I believe you read a history book on our journey here. I still say dragons are better than any of that stuff. Maybe the Qartheen are just stupid?"
Whitebeard chuckled. "Maybe."
"Queen Daenerys doesn't need their help, anyhow," she announced. "That's what we're here for."
"She might appreciate the ships they could offer her, and the soldiers placed within them."
"We've got ships!"
"Three ships, built for trading," he corrected. "It is hardly a royal armada fit to take on the Redwyne fleet. What of the soldiers, too?"
She chewed her lip. "Well … she has us, and Belwas, as well." When she looked at the old squire, she flushed, and grew angry. "It's better than nothing!"
"Not by much, I fear."
Arya's eyes narrowed. "You sound like you don't think we can do it."
He ran a wrinkled hand through his beard. "I still have faith, but I also know the struggles the queen must overcome. It does no good to blind ourselves to them, child. We must advise and guide Her Grace as much as we protect and defend her; an advisor who cannot face the truth of the matter is no use to anyone, least of all the rightful queen of Westeros."
Advise and guide. Arya did not think she had much advice or guidance to offer Daenerys Targaryen, who had done and seen so much in her life across the narrow sea. I could show her how best to catch cats, or tell her which branches in Winterfell's godswood make the best swords. Arya frowned. What type of queen would want to know that stuff? She thought of cold, cruel Queen Cersei, and suddenly grew worried that the dragon queen would be the same way.
"You are quiet," noted Whitebeard. "How come?"
"What if … she does not want us?"
The old squire looked down at the child, and frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Queen Daenerys. What if she turns us away?"
"Whyever would she do that?"
Arya's eyes dropped. "She might not want our help. If we come to her as an old squire and a skinny page in service to a pit fighter, she might turn her nose up and look elsewhere. Then what would we do?" The girl chewed her lip. "Maybe … Maybe we shouldn't use our false names," she whispered. "Maybe we should just be Arya and Barristan, instead. There's no way she'd refuse us then."
Selmy glanced about the deck of Saduleon, making sure there were no curious ears about. Once certain there weren't, he knelt down to speak to the girl. "You are scared, Arya. That is normal, and nothing to be ashamed of. We are doing a scary thing, but to cast off our disguise now is to drop our shield before battle. All it would serve to do is leave us vulnerable." Ser Barristan placed a hand on the girl's shoulder. "We do not know the queen, we do not know her nature. We risk much by giving her the naked truth, for she may not be worthy of that level of trust. Our names hold power, Arya, and to offer them up willingly is to hand that power over to the queen, and we do not know what she might do with it.
"I … I served her family once, but so too did I take Robert's pardon and swear my sword to the man who killed her brother and usurped her father's throne. If she is good and true, she will see the same in my intentions now and take me into her service, but if she is not …" Ser Barristan shook his head. "Would that I had been there to protect her and her brother, to help them grow up safe and happy. Would that she knew me already, and trusted me." His pale eyes were shining. "It is not to be, child."
Arya reached up and patted Ser Barristan's hand. "There is still time, ser. She will trust us, and we will help her, you'll see."
He smiled sadly. "Yes …" The crack of burning logs, a son's choked scream. "Did your father tell you about the war?"
"He … No," she answered. "Not really." He never liked to speak of it, Arya remembered. Others would, she thought, Luwin, and the guardsmen, and even Mother now and then, but not Father. "It was not like the songs," Jon had told her once. "They rode to save Aunt Lyanna, but they failed."
Ser Barristan nodded. "There were precious few tales of valour to speak of," he mused. "We all lost, in a way. I only ask because it may shape how Her Grace sees you, child. Stark and Targaryen fought one another, thousands died. On your side, there was uncle, aunt, and grandsire; on hers, uncle and father, niece and nephew. Blood lies between you, to walk up to her as Arya of House Stark may turn her against you for good."
He wasn't making sense. "I wasn't even born when all of that happened. Why would she be angry at me about it?"
"We do not know, but Mycah the page's father did not help to overthrow her father and force her into a life of exile. Being a Stark brings risks, my lady; risks we could well do without, at least for now."
Arya chewed her lip. She could not stop being a Stark, could she? Watching her home disappear beyond the horizon, months spent at sea, turning away from the horrors of life in Essos … all of it had been done for her family. For Winterfell, for the North, for the promise that she would see them again and feel the warmth of them after so long apart. I am Arya of House Stark … aren't I?
She was reckless, stubborn, wild, angry, foolish, childish, stupid. Arya of House Stark was all of those things. She made things awkward, ugly, difficult, dangerous, bad. Arya of House Stark did all of those things. She caused problems, issues, arguments, trouble, pain, hurt, death. Arya of House Stark caused all of those things. She thought of the slave's hollow eyes, of his master reaching for the whip that lay on the blood-stained cobbles. It was Mycah that stood guard outside the inn, and Arya that got distracted by the noises. She is nothing but trouble. Nothing.
Who needed Arya of House Stark? Who wanted Arya of House Stark? What use was there for Arya of House Stark?
She understood. Queen Daenerys needed loyalty, certainty, obedience, calmness, strength. Arya of House Stark could not offer those things, but maybe the boy could.
The page looked away. "I'll be Mycah, then," he said, barely above a whisper.
Saduleon and its sister ships docked on the far side of the harbour, nestled between a sleek Summer Island swanship and a great wallowing cog from Old Volantis. Once the gangplank was lined up with the pier the crew wasted no time in unloading parts of their hold and turning the goods they'd gathered on their journey east into coin for the magister. That was their job whilst here, but their passengers were after a different cargo.
Daenerys Targaryen could be anywhere within the city walls, and it was their job to find out where that was. Belwas, Whitebeard, and Mycah had broken their fast amidst half-unloaded crates and barrels, and were practically shooed off the deck by Groleo before the food had the chance to settle. They shuffled down the gangplank and into the press of the harbour, already crowded with people even at this relatively early hour.
In this small corner of Qarth, the Valyrians reigned, and a dozen versions of their ancient tongue could be heard being shouted in arguments, or in the telling of jests, or the peddling of goods. Whitebeard heard Pentoshi, Lyseni, Volantene, and even the mongrel Ghiscari, distant as it was compared to the other off-shoots. Despite having eaten not five minutes hence, Belwas had eyes only for the food, and quickly disappeared and re-emerged with a leg of lamb drizzled in a thick white sauce and topped with licorice and juniper berries. Mycah kept quiet, interested only in finding the queen.
With the page sullen and the eunuch eating, it fell to Whitebeard to lead them through the bright brilliance of the Port of Qarth. Covered by a rainbow of rippling canopies, the glare of the morning sun was gentled within the ramshackle market that spread about the horseshoe harbour like barnacles on a ship's hull. It felt like some endless, sprawling maze, and Whitebeard despaired of ever finding the little queen should she happen to be here. Whitebeard was used to the modest markets of King's Landing that took up a plaza or square and a few street blocks at most; if a market of this size popped up there it would engulf all of Flea Bottom and then some, most like.
Wooden stalls stood shoulder-to-shoulder with winesinks, brothels, gambling dens, and temples adorned with queer carvings of gods beyond count or countenance. As they moved through the press, Whitebeard saw men of the Free Cities, men of the Summer Isles, men of Ibben, and Lorath, and Slaver's Bay. He saw singers and sailors, cutpurses and catamites, brutes and beauties, orphans and urchins. Amidst them all walked the Qartheen. Tall, pale, and wary, they strode through the crowds as though they walked above them. Little wonder they would not help the queen, thought Whitebeard. The very notion of cooperation seems alien to them.
He turned back to his companions. "Let's split up and ask around for Her Grace. Belwas, you start with the gambling dens - and try not to spend all of the magister's coin; Mycah, you ask along the stalls; and I'll try the winesinks."
They had their plan, and off they went to execute it.
"Have you seen the dragon queen?"
The man did not look up from his work. "You here to buy something or just ask questions?"
Mycah frowned. "Have you seen Queen Daenerys?"
He put away his carving and scowled. "Are you dense, boy? If you're not buying then fuck off, you're in the way."
He turned and left the stall, red-faced and angry. Mycah knew one in every three of the words, but Belwas had made certain he could understand 'fuck off' in each of the Valyrian dialects. That had been enough to know he would get no answers from the woodworker. He passed other stalls, and wondered if any of the other vendors would be more helpful, or at least understand the common tongue so he could say more than 'Have you seen the dragon queen?'. He passed leatherworkers with saddles, boots, sheaths, and armour hung up on display; jewellers with rows of rings and piles of necklaces (though it seemed to Mycah's eye that only the topmost ones shone as silver ought to); fruit stalls that stung his eyes and nostrils both; spice stalls heavy with scent from burlap sacks filled with pepper, cinnamon, cloves, saffron, and nutmeg.
Mycah lingered at a stall run by two girls selling garments of coloured silks, running his hand across a dress made in Qartheen fashion where one breast was left bare. He had never had much use for dresses like these, but his … her sister … Sansa would have loved them, and gushed about the colours and the stitching and how wonderful it would have felt to wear one.
One of the girls looked at him. "Are you interested in that one?" she asked in the common tongue.
The sound of it startled him, and shamed him. "N-No," he said, before striding off.
Mycah found a different, more appropriate, stall. A smith sat cleaning the dirt from beneath her nails with a small dagger, on display were blades of greater size and style, with a dozen different styles of hilt and a dozen different styles of forging. He saw fat shortswords, gleaming falchions, curved arakhs, and bravo blades as skinny as he was. His hand went to Needle's hilt, felt the mark there. Mycah looked down at the blade, frowning. This … This is hers, not mine. It's Winterfell, it's the North, it's the Starks.
He grabbed the nearest weapon, it was a steel dirk with a curved hilt of ivory carved from an elephant's tusk. The blade was curved as well, rising and falling like waves on the ocean and coming to a harsh point. "How much for this?" Mycah asked the smith.
She looked up from her nails to the weapon being pointed at her. "Two honours."
Mycah reached into the pouch Whitebeard had given him and produced the coins. "There."
The smith took the dirk from him, and slid it into a small scabbard that Mycah affixed to his belt. He took it out as soon as he was alone, and admired the shine of its edge. Mine, he thought. All mine. With this blade I will protect the queen, I will keep her safe, I will-
"Mycah?"
Whitebeard was in front of him when he looked up. The old squire noticed his new weapon quickly. "I trust you paid for that."
He slid the dirk back into its scabbard. "Of course I did," he snapped. "I'm no thief."
They looked at one another for a moment, then Whitebeard said, "Belwas has a lead."
"Seriously?" Mycah had assumed the pit fighter would spend his time drinking, eating, and gambling whilst Whitebeard did the actual work. "How did he manage that?"
"He gambled for it."
The Onyx Carriage was a gloomy place, with dirty glass windows and smoke-stained walls. It was eternally dusk inside, and it was hard for Mycah to imagine what was unfolding inside could happen while the sun stood high and proud. The smell of stale blood and staler beer hit him once he came through the doorway, and he saw the remnants of some beastly fight within a hole dug in the room's centre. The crowd was thick, but only a blind man could manage to miss the great bald pit fighter they were looking for.
"I bet milk man for talk of little queen," Strong Belwas explained. "He think three dogs beat basilisk. Now he show us where silver-haired one is." Belwas patted his great belly and grinned, clearly pleased with himself.
"Where is the man?" asked his squire.
Belwas jabbed a large thumb towards the corner of the room. "Sulking."
The man was Qartheen, finely dressed, and clearly drunk. He was muttering to himself about dogs and eunuchs and the cruelty of the world. He explained, through a chorus of hiccups and belches, that he was Xerren Narkysos, brother of Xhother Narkysos, a member of the Tourmaline Brotherhood. What a man of such prestige was doing betting on dog fights with lowlives and cutthroats, neither Xerren nor Mycah could say. Belwas and Whitebeard practically had to carry him out of the den, and he moaned and whined about the sunlight hitting his eyes, yet he held up his end of the bargain (after some dry heaving and "a little lie down"), leading them out of the bazaar and into the city further.
"She has been busy," the man said in a drunken drawl, "flitting this way and that, bribing him and her with such and such. So busy," he repeated, "like a little bee buzzing all about." He giggled. "A queen bee! Of course!"
Whitebeard frowned beneath his silky white beard. "Where is she now?"
"I'm showing you, my friend. You cannot see it from here. Not much further now, though." A few more blocks of sandstone and orange bricks and they were slowly cresting a hill, atop which was a fine view of the city from on high.
"Qarth!" declared Xerren Narkysos. "Isn't she beautiful?" He leant against a nearby railing and sighed happily.
"Is this a jape?" asked Whitebeard angrily. "Do you expect us to spot her from up here?"
The Qartheen rolled his eyes. "Look for the smoke, not the girl."
"What do you …" but Whitebeard's voice trailed off as he spotted the plume emerging from the northern side of the city. It stood stark against the pale blue sky; rising, twisting, dancing. It was a grey so dark it was almost black, and here and there came twists of blues and purples that no normal flame could make. He thought of what lay in that part of Qarth, and his stomach dropped. "That's …"
"The warlock's palace," finished their guide. "I told you she's been busy."