A Feast for Dragons

of Ghis whose collossal ruins Lomas Longstrider had once
visited. Like its ancient predecessor, whose red marble halls were now the
haunt of bats and spiders, the Meereenese pyramid boasted three-and-thirty
levels, that number being somehow sacred to the gods of Ghis. Ser Barristan
began the long descent alone, his white cloak rippling behind him as he started
down. He took the servants’ steps, not the grand stairways of veined marble,
but the narrower, steeper, straighter stairs hidden within the thick brick
walls.
    Twelve levels down he found the Shavepate waiting, his
coarse features still hidden by the mask he had worn that morning, the blood
bat. Six Brazen Beasts were with him. All were masked as insects, identical to
one another.
    Locusts
, Selmy realized. “Groleo,” he said.
    “Groleo,” one of the locusts replied.
    “I have more locusts if you need them,” said Skahaz.
    “Six should serve. What of the men on the doors?”
    “Mine. You will have no trouble.”
    Ser Barristan clasped the Shavepate by the arm. “Shed no
blood unless you must. Come the morrow we will convene a council and tell the
city what we’ve done and why.”
    “As you say. Good fortune to you, old man.”
    They went their separate ways. The Brazen Beasts fell in
behind Ser Barristan as he continued his descent.
    The king’s apartments were buried in the very heart of the
pyramid, on the sixteenth and seventeenth levels. When Selmy reached those
floors, he found the doors to the interior of the pyramid chained shut, with a
pair of Brazen Beasts posted as guards. Beneath the hoods of their patchwork
cloaks, one was a rat, the other a bull.
    “Groleo,” Ser Barristan said.
    “Groleo,” the bull returned. “Third hall to the right.” The
rat unlocked the chain. Ser Barristan and his escort stepped through into a
narrow, torchlit servants’ corridor of red and black brick. Their footsteps
echoed on the floors as they strode past two halls and took the third one to
the right.
    Outside the carved hardwood doors to the king’s chambers
stood Steelskin, a younger pit fighter, not yet regarded as of the first rank.
His cheeks and brow were scarred with intricate tattoos in green and black,
ancient Valyrian sorcerer’s signs that supposedly made his flesh and skin as
hard as steel. Similar markings covered his chest and arms, though whether they
would actually stop a sword or axe remained to be seen.
    Even without them, Steelskin looked formidable—a lean and
wiry youth who overtopped Ser Barristan by half a foot. “Who goes there?” he
called out, swinging his longaxe sideways to bar their way. When he saw Ser
Barristan, with the brass locusts behind him, he lowered it again. “Old Ser.”
    “If it please the king, I must needs have words with him.”
    “The hour is late.”
    “The hour is late, but the need is urgent.”
    “I can ask.” Steelskin slammed the butt of his longaxe
against the door to the king’s apartments. A slidehole opened. A child’s eye
appeared. A child’s voice called through the door. Steelskin replied. Ser
Barristan heard the sound of a heavy bar being drawn back. The door swung open.
    “Only you,” said Steelskin. “The beasts wait here.”
    “As you wish.” Ser Barristan nodded to the locusts. One
returned his nod. Alone, Selmy slipped through the door.
    Dark and windowless, surrounded on all sides by brick walls
eight feet thick, the chambers that the king had made his own were large and
luxurious within. Great beams of black oak supported the high ceilings. The
floors were covered with silk carpets out of Qarth. On the walls were priceless
tapestries, ancient and much faded, depicting the glory of the Old Empire of
Ghis. The largest of them showed the last survivors of a defeated Valyrian army
passing beneath the yoke and being chained. The archway leading to the royal
bedchamber was guarded by a pair of sandalwood lovers, shaped and smoothed and
oiled. Ser Barristan found them distasteful, though no doubt they were meant to
be arousing.
The sooner we are gone from this place, the better
.
    An iron brazier gave the only light. Beside it stood two of
the queen’s cupbearers, Draqaz and Qezza. “Miklaz has gone to wake the king,”
said Qezza. “May we bring you wine, ser?”
    “No. I thank you.”
    “You may sit,” said Draqaz, indicating a bench.
    “I prefer to stand.” He could hear voices drifting through
the archway from the bedchamber. One of them was the king’s.
    It