They were dotted across the Port of Qarth, waiting for the dragon queen.
They had set out first thing that morning, unsure when Her Grace and her entourage would be arriving at the harbour. They would be arriving, however, for they had nowhere else to go. Mycah stalked the stalls, a hand on the pommel of his ivory dirk, eyes peeled, looking for dragons.
During her stay in the city, Daenerys Targaryen had been residing with a member of the Thirteen by the name of Xaro Xhoan Daxos, a merchant of staggering wealth with a palace of near impossible size. He had aided the queen in her attempts to curry favour with the rich and powerful of the city, and while these efforts had ultimately been unsuccessful, it seemed some fondness had remained between the pair. Daxos had proposed marriage to Her Grace and been refused, and his offer of hospitality had been rescinded soon after.
It was true that the queen could have sought accommodation elsewhere in Qarth, but her exploits in the House of the Undying had made enemies as well as ash, and it was no longer safe for her to remain in the city. That meant a ship was needed, and that meant a trip to the harbour was a necessity.
Several days had passed since her conflict with the warlocks, and there had been much trepidation from Whitebeard as to her safety, though news quickly spread that the only fatalities from the battle were the Undying Ones who led the secret guild from within their strange manse. Mycah still found it all terribly strange, and held healthy doubts over how true any of it was, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He thought of Old Nan, and the stories she would tell the children of Eddard Stark, and wondered if the tale of Queen Daenerys using dragonfire to defeat a council of undead wizards would one day be told in the same hushed tones to a new generation of wide-eyed children.
Qarth had that quality, Mycah knew; and though he had only passed briefly by the wonders the city had to offer in his stay thus far, it was hard not to think that he had passed into a strange new world at some point. Had that been the storm off the coast of Valyria? Mycah remembered the dark red haze that hung above the ruined city, like a wound cut deep into the heavens. Thunder roiled above like the moans of a dying man, agony rent across the world.
Perturbed, he shook his head of the thought. Stupid, declared Mycah. Just a stupid thought. You're the page, not the girl. The page. Mycah the Page was diligent, focused, reliable, obedient. He did not get swept up in flights of fancy, nor did he allow any little thing to distract him from his duty. Qarth felt like one big distraction, but it was one Mycah was determined to overcome.
The thought had come to him as he and Whitebeard went further into the city a few days ago, partly in the hope that they might catch sight of Queen Daenerys, and partly as a way to stave off the boredom of waiting aboard the Saduleon. Belwas might be content to lounge within his cabin and only step out to get more food or wine, but he and Whitebeard were anxious to find the queen and move on, and so had gone on the trip at Captain Groleo's insistence that their grumbling be taken elsewhere.
Mycah had not let on, but he'd secretly been wanting to go exploring the other parts of Qarth, and had jumped on Groleo's suggestion when he'd made it. While Whitebeard's eyes had been downcast as the old squire grumbled about everything and nothing, Mycah's had been everywhere but, taking in the strange sights that unfolded before them.
The port had felt as large as a city on its own, but it was really just a single part of Qarth. They spent a full day walking through the city and still couldn't reach the other side. Whitebeard had grumbled at that, too, but Mycah didn't mind. Qarth felt like a puzzle box waiting to be solved, and Mycah had spent that day trying his best to find some answers, but it felt as though the more he saw the less certain he became. While they had ventured out seeking any signs of Daenerys's whereabouts, the trip had been so much more for Mycah.
It was buildings of a thousand different colours, built of marble, granite, flint, stone, and brick. It was glass windows stained and gilded showing the battlefield, the bedroom, and everything in between. It was ornate balconies, delicate and frail, with pale Qartheen sat atop them laughing and drinking. It was crowds of people from all walks of life - squat Ibbenese, dark-skinned Summer Islanders, tokar-garbed Ghiscari with absurdly-styled hair, Qartheen atop camels dressed as finely as their masters, Qartheen women with a single breast exposed, Qartheen men in beaded silk skirts, Qartheen children naked as their name days wearing only sandals and covered head to toe in bright body paint, warlocks with blue lips and hard eyes seeking vengeance, YiTish merchants with long mustachios peddling their wares, shadowbinders from Asshai hidden behind their lacquered masks, spellsingers, drunkards, beggars, cutpurses, urchins, bravos, sellswords, sailors, and priests. On the streets of Qarth, Mycah saw them all.
They passed by fountains wrought in the shape of mythic beasts that spewed forth clear water filled with rose petals from stone beaks and marble maws. They passed by squares tiled with polished stone where musicians played strange pipes that filled the afternoon air with gentle music. They passed beneath copper arches with sweet-smelling flowers woven through them and under covered alleyways where strange men watched them with shifty eyes. They went through (a small part of) the Gardens of Gehane, and Whitebeard had to keep stopping to drag Mycah away from the latest strange and fantastical plant they came across, but the longest delay came when a Little Valyrian emerged from the canopy to steal Whitebeard's coin purse (partly due to the time it took them to catch the lemur, and partly due to how long Mycah spent laughing).
Everywhere they went, they asked about her.
Most had no answers, others had news they already had, some had praise while more cursed her name, but it was a wrinkled old crone who claimed to have spotted one of the queen's companions delivering a message that morning. They found her hunched beneath one of the Temple of Memories's floating oaks, nursing a cup of iced milk. Her eyes were dark and small, like two dried currants in the middle of a sun-scorched face. They reminded Mycah of the old woman who once told tales in the keep of Winterfell, though he quickly chided himself for recalling memories he had no way of knowing.
"He was one of you," the crone said, "an Andal, from the Sunset Kingdoms. He wore a cowl but it did not hide his ugly face, nor could it mask his accent."
Whitebeard frowned. "Jorah Mormont is no Andal, but the rest of it fits." Mycah knew of House Mormont, and wanted to ask Whitebeard for more details, but he knew to hold his tongue. "Did you learn what the message contained?"
She smiled a toothless smile. "The Courier's Guild does not divulge without due cause."
Whitebeard grimaced, and fumbled for his coin purse. Mycah watched the exchange with eyes wide as saucers. A bribe! It was terribly exciting. The old squire dropped a pair of honours onto the crone's spotted hand. He blinked and it was gone, vanished somewhere within her flowing robes.
"He wrote to an 'Allam' regarding a set of earrings and a necklace that he hoped to trade for in the city. He did not seem hopeful about the prospect, and feared that in order to turn a profit from the trip he would be forced to sell one of three prized daggers. The jewelry was still in good condition, and he would reunite with this 'Allam' once the profit was secured." The old woman cocked her head. "Was that what you were hoping to hear?"
Mycah frowned, knowing what his answer to that was, but Whitebeard nodded. "More or less."
He wanted to find out what the old squire had meant, but Mycah kept quiet instead. A page had to have obedience, he knew, though it made him fidget and fret. Whitebeard put him out of his misery once they had left the Temple and its floating oaks behind.
"It was a cipher."
"A what?"
"A cipher. A secret code. Every word has a double meaning," he explained, "done to keep the truth hidden from view."
Mycah's grey eyes went wide with awe. A cipher! He thought of secret codes the children of Winterfell had made in their maester's turret, sliding them beneath chamber doors to the sound of hushed giggling. "Where was it going, do you think?"
Whitebeard's mouth tightened. "To the magister, like as not."
Blood rushed to Arya's ears, and she saw the fat man's yellow smile, pig eyes glinting in the torchlight. "How …"
"Did your father ever tell you of Ser Jorah Mormont?"
Fingering Needle's hilt, she shook her head.
"I suspected as much. It is not a nice tale. Once, Ser Jorah was a stout and loyal bannerman to your father, and earned much acclaim for his heroics during the siege of Pyke. I know little of the details, but the man fell deeply in love with a daughter of House Hightower, and her … demands soon beggared him. She was used to the lavishness of the Reach, not the cold pines of Bear Island, and Mormont's love led him down a dark path. Having apprehended a group of poachers on his land, he sold them to a passing slaver ship. A grievous crime for which your father condemned him to death, but the knight had fled by the time Lord Eddard arrived. Somewhere along the way he crossed paths with the magister and was sent to serve Her Grace Queen Daenerys … and sell her secrets to King Robert."
Arya gasped, shocked. "Why would he do that?"
Ser Barristan looked sad. "He had been exiled in Essos for five long years, and hoped his work might earn him a royal pardon. He might have gotten it had Robert not died. The fact that he still stands at the queen's sides worries me enough, but to know he still sends missives west does not bear thinking of. The man has no loyalty to Daenerys, and he grows more desperate every day he remains in Essos. We know the magister cannot be trusted, what would stop these missives from reaching the small council of King Joffrey?"
"Why … Why would the magister sell out Daenerys? He wants her to be the queen!"
Selmy shrugged. "Illyrio Mopatis wants gold and power. The particulars matter little and less, I suspect." Suddenly the weight crashed on him and he was Whitebeard once more. "Let us return, Mycah, and with our cloaks up, lest the spy is still lingering."
Mycah, he'd thought, as they walked back. Mycah, not the girl. He'd forgotten for a bit, while the talk was of Lord Eddard and the North. It hurt to turn his back on the girl's family, but he could not risk being revealed, especially with a spy in the city.
The spy had never shown, and it was Jorenno, captain of Joso's Prank, that brought word of Queen Daenerys. He'd spotted her party that morning after returning from a night of whoring (at least according to Belwas), and rushed back to the harbour to warn them. The three of them had sprung into action a moment later, and spread out across the portside market, waiting for the queen to arrive.
Mycah caught a glimpse of Belwas, whispered, "Stupid!", under his breath, and moved off. They were meant to each have sections of the port to patrol but the sellsword had obviously seen or smelt something interesting and come wandering over. Mycah glared at the back of his bald head and moved to cover the section he'd left behind. It didn't matter which of them spotted the queen first, but Mycah wanted it to be him.
He'd dreamt about it last night.
In his dream, he was taller, a knight proper with muscled arms and a stern look in his eyes. He knelt before the queen and when she looked down at him he was filled with an indescribable warmth. All of their struggle, all of their hard work, all of it had been worth it. Mycah knew that with a certainty. Daenerys was everything he'd hoped she'd be: kind, graceful, beautiful, gentle but with an iron strength beneath it all. She was a true queen, and she'd promised to take him home.
After that they'd been in Westeros, moonlight peeking beneath the tree's canopy, the night alive with the sound of wolves. Mycah had looked around and quickly realised it was not the queen with him, nor was it Belwas and Whitebeard. His companions ran on four legs, and their muzzles were red with blood.
He'd awoken with a start, able to taste the tang of it on his lips, and his mind warred briefly with itself. It was no dream of Mycah the Page, and all it brought with it was confusion and false memories. Anger too, once he was awake enough to feel it.
The girl and her wolves didn't matter, though, not when the queen was so close. Quiet as a shadow, he moved through the morning's crowds, catching snippets of conversations he barely understood. One of every five words were familiar, though that was High Valyrian and its offshoots; Qartheen was even less.
One word he did know was 'sorry', and he heard it then when brushing past a hooded man clutching tight to a carved wooden box. It was the word Mycah had used the most since arriving, brought out whenever his flimsy attempts at conversation failed. He was glad he did not need to learn any more than that - all being well they'd be out of Qarth before the sun reached its peak, sailing west to more familiar lands.
Mycah turned a corner, heard the tinkling of bells, and saw her.
The silver-gold hair and purple-coloured eyes put him in mind of the beautiful men and women they'd seen in Lys. It made sense given the island boasted strong blood ties to ancient Valyria, but looking upon Daenerys Targaryen made their claims seem almost fanciful. Here was a true daughter of the Freehold, and that was without mentioning the dragons.
To his disappointment, they were not with her today; and, in truth, there was little of her appearance that spoke of a dragon queen. She wore no crown upon her brow, and in place of a dress lined with gemstones she wore a painted leather vest and loose riding trousers. Her shoulder-length hair was braided and in it sat a single silver bell that sang as she moved.
Towering to her left stood the spy, Ser Jorah Mormont. He was not what Mycah imagined a spy would look like, but he fit the description Whitebeard had given, and the great black bear sewn upon his waistcoat was known to Mycah as the sigil of House Mormont. Tall and broad, the man was bearded and balding, and scowled at everyone and everything he saw, save the little queen. Jorenno spoke of two Dothraki also in the party, but of them Mycah saw no sign.
He knew he needed to find the others and tell them, but he could not seem to take his eyes off the queen. She was beautiful beyond words a simple page like him could think of, and part of him was loath to disturb her, so serene did she look ambling between the stalls and ships with the ugly spy. Yet Mycah the Page was dutiful above all else, and so off he went to fetch the pit fighter and the old squire.
"We'll follow them," announced Whitebeard.
"But won't they see us?"
The old squire frowned. "We'll follow them from a distance."
"But won't they see us from a distance?"
"Better than seeing us up close."
"Why?"
"Because they might recognise us!"
"I thought that's what the disguises were for?"
"The disguises …" Whitebeard paused, pinched the bridge of his nose. "We cannot just stroll up and introduce ourselves, child. We must be cautious."
"Why?"
"Because our enemies have ears everywhere!" he hissed.
Mycah looked about. A man with enormous ears was selling mangoes, a child ran past, finger up his pug nose looking for snot. "Even here?"
"Especially here!" Whitebeard sighed. "Come along, Mycah. No more questions."
"Is it not," said Mycah as the trio slowly followed the queen and her companion, "more suspicious to just slowly creep after them like this? We want them to like us, don't we?"
"No one is creeping," Whitebeard insisted, "and they will only suspect us if they see us."
"If?" Mycah gestured around them. "We're basically the only ones here!"
Behind them, Belwas rumbled, "Mi-car right, Whitebeard. I take the Andal and you two grab the little queen. We have her aboard Saduelon before lunch."
"Quiet, both of you. Look, your yammering has caught their attention. They're hiding it behind the purchase of some brass plate but they're only using it to spy on us. Act natural," he said, breaking apart from the group in a swirl of robes.
He watched as the old man perused the wares of a potter's stall as the queen and her knight bartered with the brass seller. What is he doing? Belwas wandered forwards utterly disinterested in subtlety.
They were near enough, Mycah decided. He stepped forwards, and shouted. "Queen Daenerys!" but the words were cut off by a Qartheen who pushed him aside brusquely.
The queen turned at the sound but her eyes were drawn to the man in front. He looked oddly familiar, though Mycah could not place him until he saw the wooden box held tight to his chest.
"Mother of Dragons, for you." The Qartheen knelt and thrust the jewel-encrusted box into her face.
Daenerys took it, smiling. "You are too generous."
Mycah huffed at being upstaged and watched mutely as the queen opened the lid. As she reached inside to bring out the gift within, the man murmured, "I am so sorry."
He's sorry? was all Mycah could think before everything happened at once. The gift unfolded and let out a low hiss, the queen's violet eyes widened, and the box was sent spinning out of her hands by a whirling hardwood staff. The crowd about them erupted into shrieks and screams, and Mycah did not know where to put his eyes. A flash of metal caught his attention and he saw the spy bring the brass plate he had been haggling over down on Belwas' head.
"You leave him be!" He raced over to the knight and tackled his leg, sending him down to a knee where Belwas rallied to knock him to the floor, brass plate bent about his head like some floppy helmet.
Mormont fixed her with a glare and reached for his weapon. He and Belwas did the same, but before blood could be spilled the little queen raced between them with arms raised. "Put down your steel! Stop it!"
"Your Grace?" The knight barely lowered his longsword. "These men attacked you."
"They were defending me." Daenerys tried to shake the sting from her fingers. Mycah wondered if Whitebeard's blow had broken anything. "It was the other one, the Qartheen." She looked about, and Mycah did the same, though the man was long gone. "He was a Sorrowful Man. There was a manticore in the jewel box he gave me. This man knocked it out of my hand."
As the queen tended to the brass merchant, Mycah glanced at her other companions. They had to be the Dothraki Jorenno had seen, and that Groleo's friend spoke of back in Volantis. Mycah assumed they were guards of some sort, to be in the queen's company so often, and both looked like fighters. They stood either side of Whitebeard, no longer restraining him but not quite trusting him either.
Once the merchant was settled, Daenerys turned to face Arstan. "Who is it that I owe my life to?"
"You owe me nothing, Your Grace. I am called Arstan, though Belwas named me Whitebeard on the voyage here." He remained on one knee, and accepted the staff that had been knocked from his hands after one of the Dothraki wiped away the remnants of the manticore.
"And who is Belwas?"
Makeshift helm removed, the pit fighter swaggered forwards. "I am Belwas. Strong Belwas they name me in the fighting pits of Meereen. Never did I lose." He slapped his great big belly. "I let each man cut me once, before I kill him. Count the cuts and you will know how many Strong Belwas has slain."
Then it was his turn. Her purple eyes found him, and Mycah felt his chest tighten. Daenerys smiled, it was a lovely smile. "A child," she said. "And what might your name be?"
"Mycah," he answered. "I'm the page."
"And why are you here, Mycah the Page?"
He could have said many different things to that, but Mycah knew the truth. "We're here for you, Your Grace. We're here to take you home."