A Dance With Dragons

and one of that sweet red. None of our yellow piss, thank you. And the next time I find my flagon dry, I may have to take a switch to those pretty pink cheeks of yours.” The boy went running off, and the king turned back to Selmy. “I dreamed you found Daenerys.”
    “Dreams can lie, Your Grace.”
    “ ‘Your Radiance’ would serve. What brings you to me at this hour, ser? Some trouble in the city?”
    “The city is tranquil.”
    “Is it so?” Hizdahr looked confused. “Why have you come?”
    “To ask a question. Magnificence, are you the Harpy?”
    Hizdahr’s wine cup slipped through his fingers, bounced off the carpet, rolled. “You come to my bedchamber in the black of night and ask me that? Are you mad?” It was only then that the king seemed to notice that Ser Barristan was wearing his plate and mail. “What … why … how dare you …”
    “Was the poison your work, Magnificence?”
    King Hizdahr backed away a step. “The locusts? That … that was the Dornishman. Quentyn, the so-called prince. Ask Reznak if you doubt me.”
    “Have you proof of that? Has Reznak?”
    “No, else I would have had them seized. Perhaps I should do so in any case. Marghaz will wring a confession out of them, I do not doubt. They’re all poisoners, these Dornish. Reznak says they worship snakes.”
    “They eat snakes,” said Ser Barristan. “It was your pit, your box, your seats. Sweet wine and soft cushions, figs and melons and honeyed locusts. You provided all. You urged Her Grace to try the locusts but never tasted one yourself.”
    “I … hot spices do not agree with me. She was my wife. My queen. Why would I want to poison her?”
    Was, he says. He believes her dead. “Only you can answer that, Magnificence. It might be that you wished to put another woman in her place.” Ser Barristan nodded at the girl peering timidly from the bed-chamber. “That one, perhaps?”
    The king looked around wildly. “ Her? She’s nothing. A bedslave.” He raised his hands. “I misspoke. Not a slave. A free woman. Trained in pleasure. Even a king has needs, she … she is none of your concern, ser. I would never harm Daenerys. Never.”
    “You urged the queen to try the locusts. I heard you.”
    “I thought she might enjoy them.” Hizdahr retreated another step. “Hot and sweet at once.”
    “Hot and sweet and poisoned. With mine own ears I heard you commanding the men in the pit to kill Drogon. Shouting at them.”
    Hizdahr licked his lips. “The beast devoured Barsena’s flesh. Dragons prey on men. It was killing, burning …”
    “… burning men who meant harm to your queen. Harpy’s Sons, as like as not. Your friends.”
    “Not my friends.”
    “You say that, yet when you told them to stop killing they obeyed. Why would they do that if you were not one of them?”
    Hizdahr shook his head. This time he did not answer. “Tell me true,” Ser Barristan said, “did you ever love her, even a little? Or was it just the crown you lusted for?”
    “Lust? You dare speak to me of lust ?” The king’s mouth twisted in anger. “I lusted for the crown, aye … but not half so much as she lusted for her sellsword. Perhaps it was her precious captain who tried to poison her, for putting him aside. And if I had eaten of his locusts too, well, so much the better.”
    “Daario is a killer but not a poisoner.” Ser Barristan moved closer to the king. “Are you the Harpy?” This time he put his hand on the hilt of his longsword. “Tell me true, and I promise you shall have a swift, clean death.”
    “You presume too much, ser,” said Hizdahr. “I am done with these questions, and with you. You are dismissed from my service. Leave Meereen at once and I will let you live.”
    “If you are not the Harpy, give me his name.” Ser Barristan pulled his sword from the scabbard. Its sharp edge caught the light from the brazier, became a line of orange fire.
    Hizdahr broke. “Khrazz!” he shrieked, stumbling backwards toward his bedchamber. “Khrazz! Khrazz! ”
    Ser Barristan heard a door open, somewhere to his left. He turned in time to see Khrazz emerge from behind a tapestry. He moved slowly, still groggy from sleep, but his weapon of choice was in his hand: a Dothraki arakh, long and curved. A slasher’s sword, made to deliver deep, slicing cuts from horseback. A murderous blade against half-naked foes, in the pit or on the battlefield. But here at close quarters, the arakh ’s length would tell