A Feast for Dragons

A brazier as well. I must needs light a fire.
There will be pain. Terrible pain, such as you have never known. But when we
are done, your hand will be returned to you.”
    They are all the same, these magic men. The mouse
warned me of pain as well
. “I am ironborn, priest. I laugh at pain.
You will have what you require … but if you fail, and my hand is not
healed, I will cut your throat myself and give you to the sea.”
    Moqorro bowed, his dark eyes shining. “So be it.”
    The iron captain was not seen again that day, but as the
hours passed the crew of his
Iron Victory
reported hearing the
sound of wild laughter coming from the captain’s cabin, laughter deep and dark
and mad, and when Longwater Pyke and Wulfe One-Eye tried the cabin door they
found it barred. Later singing was heard, a strange high wailing song in a
tongue the maester said was High Valyrian. That was when the monkeys left the
ship, screeching as they leapt into the water.
    Come sunset, as the sea turned black as ink and the swollen
sun tinted the sky a deep and bloody red, Victarion came back on deck. He was
naked from the waist up, his left arm blood to the elbow. As his crew gathered,
whispering and trading glances, he raised a charred and blackened hand. Wisps
of dark smoke rose from his fingers as he pointed at the maester. “That one.
Cut his throat and throw him in the sea, and the winds will favor us all the
way to Meereen.” Moqorro had seen that in his fires. He had seen the wench wed
too, but what of it? She would not be the first woman Victarion Greyjoy had
made a widow.

----

    TYRION
    The healer entered the tent murmuring pleasantries, but one
sniff of the foul air and a glance at Yezzan zo Qaggaz put an end to that. “The
pale mare,” the man told Sweets.
    What a surprise
, Tyrion thought.
Who
could have guessed? Aside from any man with a nose and me with half of one
.
Yezzan was burning with fever, squirming fitfully in a pool of his own
excrement. His shit had turned to brown slime streaked with
blood … and it fell to Yollo and Penny to wipe his yellow bottom
clean. Even with assistance, their master could not lift his own weight; it
took all his failing strength to roll onto one side.
    “My arts will not avail here,” the healer announced. “The noble
Yezzan’s life is in the hands of the gods. Keep him cool if you can. Some say
that helps. Bring him water.” Those afflicted by the pale mare were always
thirsty, drinking gallons between their shits. “Clean fresh water, as much as
he will drink.”
    “Not river water,” said Sweets.
    “By no means.” And with that, the healer fled.
    We need to flee as well
, thought Tyrion. He
was a slave in a golden collar, with little bells that tinkled cheerfully with
every step he took.
One of Yezzan’s special treasures. An honor
indistinguishable from a death warrant
. Yezzan zo Qaggaz liked to keep
his darlings close, so it had fallen to Yollo and Penny and Sweets and his
other treasures to attend him when he grew sick.
    Poor old Yezzan
. The lord of suet was not so
bad as masters went. Sweets had been right about that. Serving at his nightly
banquets, Tyrion had soon learned that Yezzan stood foremost amongst those
Yunkish lords who favored honoring the peace with Meereen. Most of the others
were only biding their time, waiting for the armies of Volantis to arrive. A
few wanted to assault the city immediately, lest the Volantenes rob them of
their glory and the best part of the plunder. Yezzan would have no part of
that. Nor would he consent to returning Meereen’s hostages by way of trebuchet,
as the sellsword Bloodbeard had proposed.
    But much and more can change in two days. Two days ago Nurse
had been hale and healthy. Two days ago Yezzan had not heard the pale mare’s
ghostly hoofbeats. Two days ago the fleets of Old Volantis had been two days
farther off. And now …
    “Is Yezzan going to die?” Penny asked, in that
please-say-it-is-not-so voice of hers.
    “We are all going to die.”
    “Of the flux, I meant.”
    Sweets gave them both a desperate look. “Yezzan
must
not
die.” The hermaphrodite stroked the brow of their gargantuan
master, pushing back his sweat-damp hair. The Yunkishman moaned, and another
flood of brown water gushed down his legs. His bedding was stained and
stinking, but they had no way to move him.
    “Some masters free their slaves when they die,” said Penny.
    Sweets tittered. It was a ghastly sound. “Only favorites.
They