A Feast for Dragons

freedmen and the rest shavepates,
whose true loyalty might still be to Skahaz mo Kandaq. The pit fighters were
King Hizdahr’s only reliable support, against a sea of enemies.
    “May they defend His Grace against all threats.” Ser
Barristan’s tone gave no hint of his true feelings; he had learned to hide such
back in King’s Landing years ago.
    “His
Magnificence,”
Reznak mo Reznak
stressed. “Your other duties shall remain unchanged, ser. Should this peace
fail, His Radiance would still wish for you to command his forces against the
enemies of our city.”
    He has that much sense, at least
. Belaquo
Bonebreaker and Goghor the Giant might serve as Hizdahr’s shields, but the
notion of either leading an army into battle was so ludicrous that the old
knight almost smiled. “I am His Grace’s to command.”
    “Not
Grace,”
the seneschal complained. “That
style is Westerosi. His Magnificence, His Radiance, His Worship.”
    His Vanity would fit better
. “As you say.”
    Reznak licked his lips. “Then we are done.” This time his
oily smile betokened dismissal. Ser Barristan took his leave, grateful to leave
the stench of the seneschal’s perfume behind him.
A man should smell of
sweat, not flowers
.
    The Great Pyramid of Meereen was eight hundred feet high
from base to point. The seneschal’s chambers were on the second level. The
queen’s apartments, and his own, occupied the highest step.
A long climb
for a man my age
, Ser Barristan thought, as he started up. He had been
known to make that climb five or six times a day on the queen’s business, as
the aches in his knees and the small of his back could attest.
There
will come a day when I can no longer face these steps
, he thought,
and
that day will be here sooner than I would like
. Before it came, he
must make certain that at least a few of his lads were ready to take his place
at the queen’s side.
I will knight them myself when they are worthy, and
give them each a horse and golden spurs
.
    The royal apartments were still and silent. Hizdahr had not
taken up residence there, preferring to establish his own suite of rooms deep
in the heart of the Great Pyramid, where massive brick walls surrounded him on
all sides. Mezzara, Miklaz, Qezza, and the rest of the queen’s young
cupbearers—hostages in truth, but both Selmy and the queen had become so fond
of them that it was hard for him to think of them that way—had gone with the
king, whilst Irri and Jhiqui departed with the other Dothraki. Only Missandei
remained, a forlorn little ghost haunting the queen’s chambers at the apex of
the pyramid.
    Ser Barristan walked out onto the terrace. The sky above
Meereen was the color of corpse flesh, dull and white and heavy, a mass of
unbroken cloud from horizon to horizon. The sun was hidden behind a wall of
cloud. It would set unseen, as it had risen unseen that morning. The night
would be hot, a sweaty, suffocating, sticky sort of night without a breath of
air. For three days rain had threatened, but not a drop had fallen.
Rain
would come as a relief. It might help wash the city clean
.
    From here he could see four lesser pyramids, the city’s
western walls, and the camps of the Yunkishmen by the shores of Slaver’s Bay,
where a thick column of greasy smoke twisted upward like some monstrous
serpent.
The Yunkishmen burning their dead
, he realized.
The
pale mare is galloping through their siege camps
. Despite all the
queen had done, the sickness had spread, both within the city walls and
without. Meereen’s markets were closed, its streets empty. King Hizdahr had
allowed the fighting pits to remain open, but the crowds were sparse. The
Meereenese had even begun to shun the Temple of the Graces, reportedly.
    The slavers will find some way to blame Daenerys for
that as well
, Ser Barristan thought bitterly. He could almost hear
them whispering—Great Masters, Sons of the Harpy, Yunkai’i, all telling one
another that his queen was dead. Half of the city believed it, though as yet
they did not have the courage to say such words aloud.
But soon, I think
.
    Ser Barristan felt very tired, very old.
Where have
all the years gone?
Of late, whenever he knelt to drink from a still
pool, he saw a stranger’s face gazing up from the water’s depths. When had
those crow’s-feet first appeared around his pale blue eyes? How long ago had
his hair turned from sunlight into snow?
Years ago, old man. Decades
.
    Yet it seemed like only yesterday that he