“Best send down for some food and drink, then,” suggested Symon Stripeback. “This will take a while.”
It took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon. The captains and commanders argued over the maps like fishwives over a bucket of crabs. Weak points and strong points, how to best employ their small company of archers, whether the elephants should be used to break the Yunkish lines or held in reserve, who should have the honor of leading the first advance, whether their horse cavalry was best deployed on the flanks or in the vanguard.
Ser Barristan let each man speak his mind. Tal Toraq thought that they should march on Yunkai once they had broken through the lines; the Yellow City would be almost undefended, so the Yunkai’i would have no choice but to lift the siege and follow. The Spotted Cat proposed to challenge the enemy to send forth a champion to face him in single combat. Strong Belwas liked that notion but insisted he should fight, not the Cat. Camarron of the Count put forth a scheme to seize the ships tied up along the riverfront and use the Skahazadhan to bring three hundred pit fighters around the Yunkish rear. Every man there agreed that the Unsullied were their best troops, but none agreed on how they should be deployed. The Widower wanted to use the eunuchs as an iron fist to smash through the heart of the Yunkish defenses. Marselen felt they would be better placed at either end of the main battle line, where they could beat back any attempt by the foe to turn their flanks. Symon Stripeback wanted them split into three and divided amongst the three companies of freedmen. His Free Brothers were brave and eager for the fight, he claimed, but without the Unsullied to stiffen them he feared his unblooded troops might not have the discipline to face battle-seasoned sellswords by themselves. Grey Worm said only that the Unsullied would obey, whatever might be asked of them.
And when all that had been discussed, debated, and decided, Symon Stripeback raised one final point. “As a slave in Yunkai I helped my master bargain with the free companies and saw to the payment of their wages. I know sellswords, and I know that the Yunkai’i cannot pay them near enough to face dragonflame. So I ask you … if the peace should fail and this battle should be joined, will the dragons come? Will they join the fight?”
They will come, Ser Barristan might have said. The noise will bring them, the shouts and screams, the scent of blood. That will draw them to the battlefield, just as the roar from Daznak’s Pit drew Drogon to the scarlet sands. But when they come, will they know one side from the other? Somehow he did not think so. So he said only, “The dragons will do what the dragons will do. If they do come, it may be that just the shadow of their wings will be enough to dishearten the slavers and send them fleeing.” Then he thanked them and dismissed them all.
Grey Worm lingered after the others had left. “These ones will be ready when the beacon fire is lit. But the Hand must surely know that when we attack, the Yunkai’i will kill the hostages.”
“I will do all I can to prevent that, my friend. I have a … notion. But pray excuse me. It is past time the Dornishmen heard that their prince is dead.”
Grey Worm inclined his head. “This one obeys.”
Ser Barristan took two of his new-made knights with him down into the dungeons. Grief and guilt had been known to drive good men into madness, and Archibald Yronwood and Gerris Drinkwater had both played roles in their friend’s demise. But when they reached the cell, he told Tum and the Red Lamb to wait outside whilst he went in to tell the Dornish that the prince’s agony was over.
Ser Archibald, the big bald one, had nothing to say. He sat on the edge of his pallet, staring down at his bandaged hands in their linen wrappings. Ser Gerris punched a wall. “I told him it was folly. I begged him to go home. Your bitch of a queen had no use for him, any man could see that. He crossed the world to offer her his love and fealty, and she laughed in his face.”
“She never laughed,” said Selmy. “If you knew her, you would know that.”
“She spurned him. He offered her his heart, and she threw it back at him and went off to fuck her sellsword.”
“You had best guard that tongue, ser.” Ser Barristan did not like this Gerris Drinkwater, nor would he allow him to vilify Daenerys. “Prince Quentyn’s death was his own doing, and yours.”
“Ours? How are we at fault, ser? Quentyn was our friend, yes. A bit of a fool, you might say, but all dreamers are fools. But first and last he was our prince. We owed him our obedience.”
Barristan Selmy could not dispute the truth of that. He had spent the best part of his own life obeying the commands of drunkards and madmen. “He came too late.”
“He offered her his heart,” Ser Gerris said again.
“She needed swords, not hearts.”
“He would have given her the spears of Dorne as well.”
“Would that he had.” No one had wanted Daenerys to look with favor on the Dornish prince more than Barristan Selmy. “He came too late, though, and this folly … buying sellswords, loosing two dragons on the city … that was madness and worse than madness. That was treason.”
“What he did he did for love of Queen Daenerys,” Gerris Drinkwater insisted. “To prove himself worthy of her hand.”
The old knight had heard enough. “What Prince Quentyn did he did for Dorne. Do you take me for some doting grandfather? I have spent my life around kings and queens and princes. Sunspear means to take up arms against the Iron Throne. No, do not trouble to deny it. Doran Martell is not a man to call his spears without hope of victory. Duty brought Prince Quentyn here. Duty, honor, thirst for glory … never love. Quentyn was here for dragons, not Daenerys.”
“You did not know him, ser. He—”
“He’s dead, Drink.” Yronwood rose to his feet. “Words won’t fetch him back. Cletus and Will are dead too. So shut your bloody mouth before I stick my fist in it.” The big knight turned to Selmy. “What do you mean to do with us?”
“Skahaz Shavepate wants you hanged. You slew four of his men. Four of the queen’s men. Two were freedmen who had followed Her Grace since Astapor.”
Yronwood did not seem surprised. “The beast men, aye. I only killed the one, the basilisk head. The sellswords did the others. Don’t matter, though, I know that.”
“We were protecting Quentyn,” said Drinkwater. “We—”
“Be quiet, Drink. He knows.” To Ser Barristan the big knight said, “No need to come and talk if you meant to hang us. So it’s not that, is it?”
“No.” This one may not be as slow-witted as he seems. “I have more use for you alive than dead. Serve me, and afterward I will arrange a ship to take you back to Dorne and give you Prince Quentyn’s bones to return to his lord father.”
Ser Archibald grimaced. “Why is it always ships? Someone needs to take Quent home, though. What do you ask of us, ser?”
“Your swords.”
“You have thousands of swords.”
“The queen’s freedmen are as yet unblooded. The sellswords I do not trust. Unsullied are brave soldiers … but not warriors. Not knights.” He paused. “What happened when you tried to take the dragons? Tell me.”
The Dornishmen exchanged a look. Then Drinkwater said, “Quentyn told the Tattered Prince he could control them. It was in his blood, he said. He had Targaryen blood.”
“Blood of the dragon.”
“Yes. The sellswords were supposed to help us get the dragons chained up so we could get them to the docks.”
“Rags arranged for a ship,” said Yronwood. “A big one, in case we got both dragons. And Quent was going to ride one.” He looked at his bandaged hands. “The moment we got in, though, you could see none of it was going to work. The dragons were too wild. The chains … there were bits of broken chain everywhere, big chains, links the size of your head mixed in with all these cracked and splintered bones. And Quent, Seven save him, he looked like he was going to shit his smallclothes. Caggo and Meris weren’t blind, they saw it too. Then one of the crossbowmen let fly. Maybe they meant to kill the dragons all along and were only
using us to get to them. You never know with Tatters. Any way you hack it off, it weren’t clever. The quarrel just made the dragons angry, and they hadn’t been in such a good mood to start with. Then … then things got bad.”
“And the Windblown blew away,” said Ser Gerris. “Quent was screaming, covered in flames, and they were gone. Caggo, Pretty Meris, all but the dead one.”
“Ah, what did you expect, Drink? A cat will kill a mouse, a pig will wallow in shit, and a sellsword will run off when he’s needed most. Can’t be blamed. Just the nature of the beast.”
“He’s not wrong,” Ser Barristan said. “What did Prince Quentyn promise the Tattered Prince in return for all this help?”
He got no answer. Ser Gerris looked at Ser Archibald. Ser Archibald looked at his hands, the floor, the door.
“Pentos,” said Ser Barristan. “He promised him Pentos. Say it. No words of yours can help or harm Prince Quentyn now.”
“Aye,” said Ser Archibald unhappily. “It was Pentos. They made marks on a paper, the two of them.”
There is a chance here. “We still have Windblown in the dungeons. Those feigned deserters.”
“I remember,” said Yronwood. “Hungerford, Straw, that lot. Some of them weren’t so bad for sellswords. Others, well, might be they could stand a bit of dying. What of them?”
“I mean to send them back to the Tattered Prince. And you with them. You will be two amongst thousands. Your presence in the Yunkish camps should pass unnoticed. I want you to deliver a message to the Tattered Prince. Tell him that I sent you, that I speak with the queen’s voice. Tell him that we’ll pay his price if he delivers us our hostages, unharmed and whole.”
Ser Archibald grimaced. “Rags and Tatters is more like to give the two of us to Pretty Meris. He won’t do it.”
“Why not? The task is simple enough.” Compared to stealing dragons. “I once brought the queen’s father out of Duskendale.”
“That was Westeros,” said Gerris Drinkwater.
“This is Meereen.”
“Arch cannot even hold a sword with those hands.”
“He ought not need to. You will have the sellswords with you, unless I mistake my man.”
Gerris Drinkwater pushed back his mop of sun-streaked hair. “Might we have some time to discuss this amongst ourselves?”
“No,” said Selmy.
“I’ll do it,” offered Ser Archibald, “just so long as there’s no bloody boats involved. Drink will do it too.” He grinned. “He don’t know it yet, but he will.”
And that was done.
The simple part, at least, thought Barristan Selmy, as he made the long climb back to the summit of the pyramid. The hard part he’d left in Dornish hands. His grandfather would have been aghast. The Dornishmen were knights, at least in name, though only Yronwood impressed him as having the true steel. Drinkwater had a pretty face, a glib tongue, and a fine head of hair.
By the time the old knight returned to the queen’s rooms atop the pyramid, Prince Quentyn’s corpse had been removed. Six of the young cupbearers were playing some child’s game as he entered, sitting in a circle on the floor as they took turns spinning a dagger. When it wobbled to a stop they cut a lock of hair off whichever of them the blade was pointing at. Ser Barristan had played a similar game with his cousins when he was just a boy at Harvest Hall … though in Westeros, as he recalled, kissing had been involved as well. “Bhakaz,” he called. “A cup of wine, if you would be so good. Grazhar, Azzak, the door is yours. I am expecting the Green Grace. Show her in at once when she arrives. Elsewise, I do not wish to be disturbed.”
Azzak scrambled to his feet. “As you command, Lord Hand.”
Ser Barristan went out onto the terrace. The rain had stopped, though a wall of slate-grey clouds hid the setting sun as it made its descent into Slaver’s Bay. A few wisps of smoke still rose from the blackened stones of Hazdar, twisted like ribbons by the wind. Far off to the east, beyond the city walls, he saw pale wings moving above a distant line of hills. Viserion. Hunting, mayhaps, or flying just to fly. He wondered where Rhaegal was. Thus far the green dragon had shown himself to be more dangerous than the white.
When Bhakaz brought his wine, the old knight took one long swallow and sent the boy for water. A few cups of wine might be just the thing to help him sleep, but he would need his wits about him when Galazza Galare returned from treating with the foe. So he drank his wine well watered, as the world grew dark around him. He was very tired, and full of doubts. The Dornishmen, Hizdahr, Reznak, the attack … was he doing the right things? Was he doing what Daenerys would have wanted? I was not made for this. Other Kingsguard had served as Hand before him. Not many, but a few. He had read of them in the White Book. Now he found himself wondering whether they had felt as lost and confused as he did.
“Lord Hand.” Grazhar stood in the door, a taper in his hand. “The Green Grace has come. You asked to be told.”
“Show her in. And light some candles.”
Galazza Galare was attended by four Pink Graces. An aura of wisdom and dignity seemed to surround her that Ser Barristan could not help but admire. This is a strong woman, and she has been a faithful friend to Daenerys. “Lord Hand,” she said, her face hidden behind shimmering green veils. “May I sit? These bones are old and weary.”
“Grazhar, a chair for the Green Grace.” The Pink Graces arrayed themselves behind her, with eyes lowered and hands clasped before them. “May I offer you refreshment?” asked Ser Barristan.
“That would be most welcome, Ser Barristan. My throat is dry from talking. A juice, perhaps?”
“As you wish.” He beckoned to Kezmya and had her fetch the priestess a goblet of lemon juice, sweetened with honey. To drink it, the priestess had to remove her veil, and Selmy was reminded of just how old she was. Twenty years my elder, or more. “If the queen were here, I know she would join me in thanking you for all that you have done for us.”
“Her Magnificence has always been most gracious.” Galazza Galare finished her drink and fastened up her veil again. “Have there been any further tidings of our sweet queen?”
“None as yet.”
“I shall pray for her. And what of King Hizdahr, if I may be so bold? Might I be permitted to see His Radiance?”
“Soon, I hope. He is unharmed, I promise you.”
“I am pleased to hear that. The Wise Masters of Yunkai asked after him. You will not be surprised to hear that they wish the noble Hizdahr to be restored at once to his rightful place.”
“He shall be, if it can be proved that he did not try to kill our queen. Until such time, Meereen will be ruled by a council of the loyal and just. There is a place for you on that council. I know that you have much to teach us all, Your Benevolence. We need your wisdom.”
“I fear you flatter me with empty courtesies, Lord Hand,” the Green Grace said. “If you truly think me wise, heed me now. Release the noble Hizdahr and restore him to his throne.”
“Only the queen can do that.”
Beneath her veils, the Green Grace sighed. “The peace that we worked so hard to forge flutters like a leaf in an autumn wind. These are dire days. Death stalks our streets, riding the pale mare from thrice-cursed Astapor. Dragons haunt the skies, feasting on the flesh of children. Hundreds are taking ship, sailing for Yunkai, for Tolos, for Qarth, for any refuge that will have them. The pyramid of Hazkar has collapsed into a smoking ruin, and many of that ancient line lie dead beneath its blackened stones. The pyramids of Uhlez and Yherizan have become the lairs of monsters, their masters homeless beggars. My people have lost all hope and turned against the gods themselves, giving over their nights to drunkenness and fornication.”
“And murder. The Sons of the Harpy slew thirty in the night.”
“I grieve to hear this. All the more reason to free the noble Hizdahr zo Loraq, who stopped such killings once.”
And how did he accomplish that, unless he is himself the Harpy? “Her Grace gave her hand to Hizdahr zo Lor
aq, made him her king and consort, restored the mortal art as he beseeched her. In return he gave her poisoned locusts.”
“In return he gave her peace. Do not cast it away, ser, I beg you. Peace is the pearl beyond price. Hizdahr is of Loraq. Never would he soil his hands with poison. He is innocent.”
“How can you be certain?” Unless you know the poisoner.
“The gods of Ghis have told me.”
“My gods are the Seven, and the Seven have been silent on this matter. Your Wisdom, did you present my offer?”
“To all the lords and captains of Yunkai, as you commanded me … yet I fear you will not like their answer.”
“They refused?”
“They did. No amount of gold will buy your people back, I was told. Only the blood of dragons may set them free again.”
It was the answer Ser Barristan had expected, if not the one that he had hoped for. His mouth tightened.
“I know these were not the words you wished to hear,” said Galazza Galare. “Yet for myself, I understand. These dragons are fell beasts. Yunkai fears them … and with good cause, you cannot deny. Our histories speak of the dragonlords of dread Valyria and the devastation that they wrought upon the peoples of Old Ghis. Even your own young queen, fair Daenerys who called herself the Mother of Dragons … we saw her burning, that day in the pit … even she was not safe from the dragon’s wroth.”
“Her Grace is not … she …”
“… is dead. May the gods grant her sweet sleep.” Tears glistened behind her veils. “Let her dragons die as well.”
Selmy was groping for an answer when he heard the sound of heavy footsteps. The door burst inward, and Skahaz mo Kandaq stormed in with four Brazen Beasts behind him. When Grazhar tried to block his path, he slammed the boy aside.
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