The Winds Of Winter Part 4

It was only then that Tyrion heard the shouts. He was lost in a black rage, drowning in a sea of memory, but the shouting brought the world back in a rush. He opened his hands, took a breath, turned away from Penny. "Something's happening.' He went outside to discover what it was. Dragons.

The green beast was circling above the bay, banking and turning as longships and galleys clashed and burned below him, but it was the white dragon the sellswords were gawking at. Three hundred yards away the Wicked Sister swung her arm, chunk-THUMP, and six fresh corpses went dancing through the sky. Up they rose, and up, and up. Then two burst into flame.

The dragon caught one burning body just as it began to fall, crunching it between his jaws as pale fires ran across his teeth. White wings cracked against the morning air. and the beast began to climb again. The second corpse caromed off an outstretched claw and plunged straight down, to land amongst some Yunkish hors.e.m.e.n. Some of them caught fire too. One horse reared up and threw his rider. The others ran, trying to outrace the flames and fanning them instead. Tyrion Lannister could almost taste the panic as it rippled out across the camps.

The sharp, familiar scent of urine filled the air. The dwarf alohced about and was relieved to see that it was Inkpots who :ha'd p.i.s.sed himself, not him. "You had best go change your breeches, " Tyrion told him. "And whilst you are about it, turn your cloak." The paymaster blanched but did not move.

He was still standing there, staring as the dragon s.n.a.t.c.hed corpses from the air, when the messenger came pounding up. A b.l.o.o.d.y officer. Tyrion saw at once. He was clad in golden armor and mounted on a golden horse. Loudly he announced that he had come from the supreme commander of the Yunkai'i, the n.o.ble and puissant Gorzhak zo Eraz. "Lord Gorzhak sends his compliments to Captain Plumm and requests that he bring his company to the bay sh.o.r.e. Our ships are under attack."

Your ships are sinking, burning, fleeing, thought Trion. Your ships are being taken, your men put to the sword. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, close by the Iron Islands; ironborn reavers were no strangers to their sh.o.r.es. Over the centuries . they had burned Lannispon at least thrice and raided it two dozen times. Westermen knew what savagery the ironbom were capable of; these slavers were just learning.

"Captain's not here just now,' Inkpots told the messenger. 'He's gone to see the Girl General."

The rider pointed at the sun. "Lady Malazza's command ended with the rising of the sun. Do as Lord Gorzhak instructs you. "

"Attack the squid ships, you mean? The ones out there in the water?" The paymaster frowned. "I don't see how, myself, but when Brown Ben gets back I'll tell him what your Gorzhak wants."

"I gave you a command. You will act upon it now."

"We take commands from our captain," Inkpots said in his usual mild tone. "He's not here. I told you."

The messenger had lost his patience, Tyrion could see. "Battle is joined. Your commander should be with you."

"Might be, but he's not. The girl sent for him. He went."

The messenger went purple. "You must carry out your order!"

s.n.a.t.c.h spat a wad of well-chewed sourleaf out of the left side of his mouth. 'Begging your pardon,' he told the Yunkish rider, "but we're all hors.e.m.e.n here, same as m'lord. Now, a good trained warhorse, he'll charge a wall o' spears. Some will leap a fire ditch. But I never once seen any horse could run on water. "

"The ships are landing men," screamed the Yunkish lordling. They've blocked the mouth of the Skahazadhan with a fireship, and every moment you stand here talking another hundred swords come splashing through the shallows. a.s.semble your men and drive them back into the sea! At once! Gorzhak commands it!"

"Which one is Gorzhak?" asked Kem. "Is he the Rabbit?"

"Pudding Face," said lnkpots. "The Rabbit's not fool enough to send light horse against longships."

The rider had heard enough. "I shall inform Gorzhak zo Eraz that you refuse to carry out his order," he said stiffly. Then he wheeled his golden horse around and galloped back the way he'd come, chased by a gale of sellsword laughter.

lnkpots was the first to let his smile die. "Enough," he said, suddenly solemn. "Back to it. Get those horses saddled, I want every man of you ready to ride when Ben gets back here with some proper orders. And put that cookf ire out. You can break your fasts after the fighting's done if you live that long." His gaze fell on Tyrion. "What are you grinning at? You look a little fool in that armor, Halfman."

"Better to look a fool than to be one," the dwarf replied. "We are on the losing side."

"The Halfman's right," said Jorah Mormont. "We do not want to be fighting for the slavers when Daenerys returns... and she will, make no mistake. Strike now and strike hard, and the queen will not forget it. Find her hostages and free them. And I will swear on the honor of my house and home that this was Brown Ben's plan from the beginning."

Out on the waters of Slaver's Bay, another of the Qartheen galleys went up in a sudden whooosh of flame. Tyrion could hear elephants trumpeting to the east. The arms of the six sisters rose and fell, throwing corpses. Shield slammed against shield as two spear walls came together beneath the walls of Meereen. Dragons wheeled overhead, their shadows sweeping across the upturned faces of friend and foe alike.

Inkpots threw up his hands. "I keep the books. I guard our gold. I draw up our agreements, collect our wages, make certain that we have sufficient coin to buy provisions. I do not decide who we fight or when. That is for Brown Ben to say. Take it up with 'hint when he returns."

By the time Plumm and his companions came galloping back from the camp of the Girl General, the white dragon had flown back to its lair above Meereen. The green still prowled, soaring in wide circles above the city and the bay on great green wings.

Brown Ben Plumm wore plate and mail over boiled leather. The :silk cloak flowing from his shoulders was his only concession to vanity: it rippled when he moved, the color changing from pale violet to deep purple. He swung down from his horse and gave her over to a groom, then told s.n.a.t.c.h to summon his captains.

"Tell them to make haste," added Kasporio the Cunning.

Tyrion was not even a serjeant, but their cyva.s.se games had made him a familiar sight in Brown Ben's tent, and no one tried to stop him when he entered with the rest. Besides Kasporio and lnkpots. Uhlan and Bokkoko were amongst those summoned. The dwarf was surprised to see Ser Jorah Mormont there as well.

"We are commanded to defend the Wicked Sister," Brown Ben informed them. The other men exchanged uneasy glances. No one seemed to want to speak until Ser Jorah asked. "On whose authority?"

"The girl's. Ser Grandfather is making for the Harridan, but she's afraid he'll turn toward Wicked Sister next. The Ghost is already down. Ma.r.s.elen's freedmen broke the Long Lances like a rotten stick and dragged it over with chains. The girl figures Selmy means to bring down all the trebuchets."

"It's what I'd do in his place,"...

MERCY.

She woke with a gasp, not knowing who she was, or where.

The smell of blood was heavy in her nostrilsa or was that her nightmare, lingering? She had dreamed of wolves again, of running through some dark pine forest with a great pack at her h.e.l.ls, hard on the scent of prey.

Half-light filled the room, grey and gloomy. Shivering, she sat up in bed and ran a hand across her scalp. Stubble bristled against her palm. I need to shave before Izembaro sees. Mercy, Iam Mercy, and tonight Iall be raped and murdered. Her true name was Mercedene, but Mercy was all anyone ever called hera Except in dreams. She took a breath to quiet the howling in her heart, trying to remember more of what shead dreamt, but most of it had gone already. There had been blood in it, though, and a full moon overhead, and a tree that watched her as she ran.

She had fastened the shutters back so the morning sun might wake her. But there was no sun outside the window of Mercyas little room, only a wall of shifting grey fog. The air had grown chillya and a good thing, else she might have slept all day. It would be just like Mercy to sleep through her own rape.

Goosep.r.i.c.kles covered her legs. Her coverlet had twisted around her like a snake. She unwound it, threw the blanket to the bare plank floor and padded naked to the window. Braavos was lost in fog. She could see the green water of the little ca.n.a.l below, the cobbled stone street that ran beneath her building, two arches of the mossy bridgea but the far end of the bridge vanished in greyness, and of the buildings across the ca.n.a.l only a few vague lights remained. She heard a soft splash as a serpent boat emerged beneath the bridgeas central arch. aWhat hour?a Mercy called down to the man who stood by the snakeas uplifted tail, pushing her onward with his pole.

The waterman gazed up, searching for the voice. aFour, by the t.i.tanas roar.a His words echoed hollowly off the swirling green waters and the walls of unseen buildings.

She was not late, not yet, but she should not dawdle. Mercy was a happy soul and a hard worker, but seldom timely. That would not serve tonight. The envoy from Westeros was expected at the Gate this evening, and Izembaro would be in no mood to hear excuses, even if she served them up with a sweet smile.

She had filled her basin from the ca.n.a.l last night before she went to sleep, preferring the brackish water to the slimy green rainwater stewing in the cistern out back. Dipping a rough cloth, she washed herself head to heel, standing on one leg at a time to scrub her calloused feet. After that she found her razor. A bare scalp helped the wigs fit better, Izembaro claimed.

She shaved, donned her smallclothes, and slipped a shapeless brown wool dress down over her head. One of her stockings needed mending, she saw as she pulled it up. She would ask the Snapper for help; her own sewing was so wretched that the wardrobe mistress usually took pity on her. Else I could filtch a nicer pair from wardrobe. That was risky, though. Izembaro hated it when the mummers wore his costumes in the streets. Except for Wendeyne. Give Izembaroas c.o.c.k a little suck and a girl can wear any costume that she wants. Mercy was not so foolish as all that. Daena had warned her. aGirls who start down that road wind up on the Ship, where every man in the pit knows he can have any pretty thing he might see up on the stage, if his purse is plump enough.a Her boots were lumps of old brown leather mottled with saltstains and cracked from long wear, her belt a length of hempen rope dyed blue. She knotted it about her waist, and hung a knife on her right hip and a coin pouch on her left. Last of all she threw her cloak across her shoulders. It was a real mummeras cloak, purple wool lined in red silk, with a hood to keep the rain off, and three secret pockets too. Shead hid some coins in one of those, an iron key in another, a blade in the last. A real blade, not a fruit knife like the one on her hip, but it did not belong to Mercy, no more than her other treasures did. The fruit knife belonged to Mercy. She was made for eating fruit, for smiling and joking, for working hard and doing as she was told.

aMercy, Mercy, Mercy,a she sang as she descended the wooden stair to the street. The handrail was splintery, the steps steep, and there were five flights, but that was why shead gotten the room so cheap. That, and Mercyas smile. She might be bald and skinny, but Mercy had a pretty smile, and a certain grace. Even Izembaro agreed that she was graceful. She was not far from the Gate as the crows flies, but for girls with feet instead of wings the way was longer. Braavos was a crooked city. The streets were crooked, the alleys were crookeder, and the ca.n.a.ls were crookedest of all. Most days she preferred to go the long way, down the Ragmanas Road along the Outer Harbor, where she had the sea before her and the sky above, and a clear view across the Great Lagoon to the a.r.s.enal and the piney slopes of Sellagoroas Shield. Sailors would hail her as she pa.s.sed the docks, calling down from the decks of tarry Ibbenese whalers and big-bellied Westerosi cogs. Mercy could not always understand their words, but she knew what they were saying. Sometimes she would smile back and tell them they could find her at the Gate if they had the coin.

The long way also took her across the Bridge of Eyes with its carved stone faces. From the top of its span, she could look through the arches and see all the city: the green copper domes of the Hall of Truth, the masts rising like a forest from the Purple Harbor, the tall towers of the mighty, the golden thunderbolt turning on its spire atop the Sealordas Palacea even the t.i.tanas bronze shoulders, off across the dark green waters. But that was only when the sun was shining down on Braavos. If the fog was thick there was nothing to see but grey, so today Mercy chose the shorter route to save some wear on her poor cracked boots.

The mists seemed to part before her and close up again as she pa.s.sed. The cobblestones were wet and slick under her feet. She heard a cat yowl plaintively. Braavos was a good city for cats, and they roamed everywhere, especially at night. In the fog all cats are grey, Mercy thought. In the fog all men are killers.

She had never seen a thicker fog than this one. On the larger ca.n.a.ls, the watermen would be running their serpent boats into one another, unable to make out any more than dim lights from the buildings to either side of them.

Mercy pa.s.sed an old man with a lantern walking the other way, and envied him his light. The street was so gloomy she could scarcely see where she was stepping. In the humbler parts of the city, the houses, shops, and warehouses crowded together, leaning on each other like drunken lovers, their upper stories so close that you could step from one balcony to the next. The streets below became dark tunnels where every footfall echoed. The small ca.n.a.ls were even more hazardous, since many of the houses that lined them had privies jutting out over the water. Izembaro loved to give the Sealordas speech from The Merchantas Melancholy Daughter, about how ahere the last t.i.tan yet stands, astride the stony shoulders of his brothers,a but Mercy preferred the scene where the fat merchant shat on the Sealordas head as he pa.s.sed underneath in his gold-and-purple barge. Only in Braavos could something like that happen, it was said, and only in Braavos would Sealord and sailor alike howl with laughter to see it.

The Gate stood close by the edge of Drowned Town, between the Outer Harbor and the Purple Harbor. An old warehouse had burnt there and the ground was sinking a little more each year, so the land came cheap. Atop the flooded stone foundation of the warehouse, Izembaro raised his cavernous playhall. The Dome and the Blue Lantern might enjoy more fashionable environs, he told his mummers, but here between the harbors they would never lack for sailors and wh.o.r.es to fill their pit. The Ship was close by, still pulling handsome crowds to the quay where she had been moored for twenty years, he said, and the Gate would flourish too.

Time had proved him right. The Gateas stage had developed a tilt as the building settled, their costumes were p.r.o.ne to mildew, and water snakes nested in the flooded cellar, but none of that troubled the mummers so long as the house was full.

The last bridge was made of rope and raw planks, and seemed to dissolve into nothingness, but that was only the fog. Mercy scampered across, her heels ringing on the wood. The fog opened before her like a tattered grey curtain to reveal the playhouse. b.u.t.tery yellow light spilled from the doors, and Mercy could hear voices from within. Beside the entrance, Big Brusco had painted over the t.i.tle of the last show, and written The b.l.o.o.d.y Hand in its place in huge red letters. He was painting a b.l.o.o.d.y hand beneath the words, for those who could not read. Mercy stopped to have a look. aThatas a nice hand,a she told him.

aThumbas crooked.a Brusco dabbed at it with his brush. aKing oa the Mummers been asking after you.a aIt was so dark I slept and slept.a When Izembaro had first dubbed himself the King of the Mummers, the company had taken a wicked pleasure in it, savoring the outrage of their rivals from the Dome and the Blue Lantern. Of late, though, Izembaro had begun to take his t.i.tle too seriously. aHe will only play kings now,a Marro said, rolling his eyes, aand if the play has no king in it, he would sooner not stage it at all.a The b.l.o.o.d.y Hand offered two kings, the fat one and the boy. Izembaro would play the fat one. It was not a large part, but he had a fine speech as he lay dying, and a splendid fight with a demonic boar before that. Phario Forel had written it, and he had the bloodiest quill of all of Braavos.

Mercy found the company a.s.sembled behind the stage, and slipped in between Daena and the Snapper at the back, hoping her late arrival would go unnoticed. Izembaro was telling everyone that he expected the Gate to be packed to the rafters this evening, despite the fog. aThe King of Westeros is sending his envoy to do homage to the King of the Mummers tonight,a he told his troupe. aWe will not disappoint our fellow monarch.a aWe?a said the Snapper, who did all the costumes for the mummers. aIs there more than one of him, now?a aHeas fat enough to count for two,a whispered Bobono. Every mummeras troupe had to have a dwarf. He was theirs. When he saw Mercy, he gave her a leer. aOho,a he said, athere she is. Is the little girl all ready for her rape?a He smacked his lips.

The Snapper smacked him in the head. aBe quiet.a The King of the Mummers ignored the brief commotion. He was still talking, telling the mummers how magnificent they must be. Besides the Westerosi envoy, there would be keyholders in the crowd this evening, and famous courtesans as well. He did not intend for them to leave with a poor opinion of the Gate. aIt shall go ill for any man who fails me,a he promised, a threat he borrowed from the speech Prince Garin gives on the eve of battle in Wroth of the Dragonlords, Phario Forelas first play.

By the time Izembaro finally finished speaking, less than an hour remained before the show, and the mummers were all frantic and fretful by turns. The Gate rang to the sound of Mercyas name.

aMercy,a her friend Daena implored, aLady Stork has stepped on the hem of her gown again. Come help me sew it up.a aMercy,a the Stranger called, abring the b.l.o.o.d.y paste, my horn is coming loose.a aMercy,a boomed Izembaro the Great himself, awhat have you done with my crown, girl? I cannot make my entrance without my crown. How shall they know that Iam a king?a aMercy,a squeaked the dwarf Bobono, aMercy, somethingas amiss with my laces, my c.o.c.k keeps flopping out.a She fetched the sticky paste and fastened the Strangeras left horn back onto his forehead. She found Izembaroas crown in the privy where he always left it and helped him pin it to his wig, and then ran for needle and thread so the Snapper could sew the lace hem back onto the cloth-of-gold gown that the queen would wear in the wedding scene.

And Bobonoas c.o.c.k was indeed flopping out. It was made to flop out, for the rape. What a hideous thing, Mercy thought as she knelt before the dwarf to fix him. The c.o.c.k was a foot long and as thick as her arm, big enough to be seen from the highest balcony. The dyer had done a poor job with the leather, though; the thing was a mottled pink and white, with a bulbous head the color of a plum. Mercy pushed it back into Bobonoas breeches and laced him back up. aMercy,a he sang as she tied him tight, aMercy, Mercy, come to my room tonight and make a man of me.a aIall make a eunuch of you if you keep unlacing yourself just so Iall fiddle with your crotch.a aWe were meant to be together, Mercy,a Bobono insisted. aLook, weare just the same height.a aOnly when Iam on my knees. Do you remember your first line?a It had only been a fortnight since the dwarf had lurched onto stage in his cups and opened The Anguish of the Archon with the grumpkinas speech from The Merchantas l.u.s.ty Lady. Izembaro would skin him alive if he made such a blunder again, and never mind how hard it was to find a good dwarf.

aWhat are we playing, Mercy?a Bobono asked innocently.

He is teasing me, Mercy thought. Heas not drunk tonight, he knows the show perfectly well. aWe are doing Pharioas new b.l.o.o.d.y Hand, in honor of the envoy from the Seven Kingdoms.a aNow I recall.a Bobono lowered his voice to a sinister croak. aThe seven-faced G.o.d has cheated me,a he said. aMy n.o.ble sire he made of purest gold, and gold he made my siblings, boy and girl. But I am formed of darker stuff, of bones and blood and clay, twisted into this rude shape you see before you.a With that, he grabbed at her chest, fumbling for a nipple. aYou have no t.i.tties. How can I rape a girl with no t.i.tties?a She caught his nose between her thumb and forefinger and twisted. aYouall have no nose until you get your hands off me.a aOwwwww,a the dwarf squealed, releasing her.

aIall grow t.i.tties in a year or two.a Mercy rose, to tower over the little man. aBut youall never grow another nose. You think of that, before you touch me there.a Bobono rubbed his tender nose. aThereas no need to get so shy. Iall be raping you soon enough.a aNot until the second act.a aI always give Wendeyneas t.i.tties a nice squeeze when I rape her in The Anguish of the Archon,a the dwarf complained. aShe likes it, and the pit does too. You have to please the pit.a That was one of Izembaroas awisdoms,a as he liked to call them. You have to please the pit. aI bet it would please the pit if I ripped off the dwarfas c.o.c.k and beat him about the head with it,a Mercy replied. aThatas something they wonat have seen before.a Always give them something they havenat seen before was another of Izembaroas awisdoms,a and one that Bobono had no easy answer for. aThere, youare done,a Mercy announced. aNow see if you can keep in your breeches till itas needed.a Izembaro was calling for her again. Now he could not find his boar spear. Mercy found it for him, helped Big Brusco don his boar suit, checked the trick daggers just to make certain no one had replaced one with a real blade (someone had done that at the Dome once, and a mummer had died), and poured Lady Stork the little nip of wine she liked to have before each play. When all the cries of aMercy, Mercy, Mercya finally died away, she stole a moment for a quick peek out into the house.

The pit was as full as ever shead seen it, and they were enjoying themselves already, joking and jostling, eating and drinking. She saw a peddler selling chunks of cheese, ripping them off the wheel with his fingers whenever he found a buyer. A woman had a bag of wrinkled apples. Skins of wine were being pa.s.sed from hand to hand, some girls were selling kisses, and one sailor was playing the sea pipes. The sad-eyed little man called Quill stood in the back, come to see what he could steal for one of his own plays. Cossomo the Conjurer had come as well, and on his arm was Yna, the one-eyed wh.o.r.e from the Happy Port, but Mercy could not know those two, and they would not know Mercy. Daena recognized some Gate regulars in the crowd, and pointed them out for her; the dyer Dellono with his pinched white face and mottled purple hands, Galeo the sausage-maker in his greasy leather ap.r.o.n, tall Tomarro with his pet rat on his shoulder. aTomarro best not let Galeo see that rat,a Daena warned. aThatas the only meat he puts in them sausages, I hear.a Mercy covered her mouth and laughed.

The balconies were filling too. The first and third levels were for merchants and captains and other respectable folk. The bravos preferred the fourth and highest, where the seats were cheapest. It was a riot of bright color up there, while down below more somber shades held sway. The second balcony was cut up into private boxes where the mighty could comport themselves in comfort and privacy, safely apart from the vulgarity above and below. They had the best view of the stage, and servants to bring them food, wine, cushions, whatever they might desire. It was rare to find the second balcony more than half full at the Gate; such of the mighty who relished a night of mummery were more inclined to visit the Dome or the Blue Lantern, where the offerings were considered subtler and more poetic.

This night was different, though, no doubt on account of the Westerosi envoy. In one box sat three scions of Otharys, each accompanied by a famous courtesan; Prestayn sat alone, a man so ancient that you wondered how he ever reached his seat; Torone and Pranelis shared a box, as they shared an uncomfortable alliance; the Third Sword was hosting a half-dozen friends.

aI count five keyholders,a said Daena.

aBessaro is so fat you ought to count him twice,a Mercy replied, giggling. Izembaro had a belly on him, but compared to Bessaro he was as lithe as a willow. The keyholder was so big he needed a special seat, thrice the size of a common chair.

aTheyare all fat, them Reyaans,a Daena said. aBellies as big as their ships. You should have seen the father. He made this one look small. One time he was summoned to the Hall of Truth to vote, but when he stepped onto his barge it sank.a She clutched Mercy by the elbow. aLook, the Sealordas box.a The Sealord had never visited the Gate, but Izembaro named a box for him anyway, the largest and most opulent in the house. aThat must be the Westerosi envoy. Have you ever seen such clothes on an old man? And look, heas brought the Black Pearl!a The envoy was slight and balding, with a funny grey wisp of a beard growing from his chin. His cloak was yellow velvet, and his breeches. His doublet was a blue so bright it almost made Mercyas eyes water. Upon his breast a shield had been embroidered in yellow thread, and on the shield was a proud blue rooster picked out in lapis lazuli. One of his guards helped him to his seat, while two others stood behind him in the back of the box.

The woman with him could not have been more than a third his age. She was so lovely that the lamps seemed to burn brighter when she pa.s.sed. She had dressed in a low-cut gown of pale yellow silk, startling against the light brown of her skin. Her black hair was bound up in a net of spun gold, and a jet-and-gold necklace brushed against the top of her full b.r.e.a.s.t.s. As they watched, she leaned close to the envoy and whispered something in his ear that made him laugh. aThey should call her the Brown Pearl,a Mercy said to Daena. aSheas more brown than black.a aThe first Black Pearl was black as a pot of ink,a said Daena. aShe was a pirate queen, fathered by a Sealordas son on a princess from the Summer Isles. A dragon king from Westeros took her for his lover.a aI would like to see a dragon,a Mercy said wistfully. aWhy does the envoy have a chicken on his chest?a Daena howled. aMercy, donat you know anything? Itas his siggle. In the Sunset Kingdoms all the lords have siggles. Some have flowers, some have fish, some have bears and elks and other things. See, the envoyas guards are wearing lions.a It was true. There were four guards; big, hard-looking men in ringmail, with heavy Westerosi longswords sheathed at their hips. Their crimson cloaks were bordered in whorls of gold, and golden lions with red garnet eyes clasped each cloak at the shoulder. When Mercy glanced at the faces beneath the gilded, lion-crested helm, her belly gave a quiver. The G.o.ds have given me a gift. Her fingers clutched hard at Daenaas arm. aThat guard. The one on the end, behind the Black Pearl.a aWhat of him? Do you know him?a aNo.a Mercy had been born and bred in Braavos, how could she know some Westerosi? She had to think a moment. aItas onlya well, heas fair to look on, donat you think?a He was, in a rough-hewn way, though his eyes were hard.

Daena shrugged. aHeas very old. Not so old as the other ones, buta he could be thirty. And Westerosi. Theyare terrible savages, Mercy. Best stay well away from his sort.a aStay away?a Mercy giggled. She was a giggly sort of girl, was Mercy. aNo. Iave got to get closer.a She gave Daena a squeeze and said, aIf the Snapper comes looking for me, tell her that I went off to read my lines again.a She only had a few, and most were just, aOh, no, no, no,a and aDonat, oh donat, donat touch me,a and aPlease, malord, I am still a maiden,a but this was the first time Izembaro had given her any lines at all, so it was only to be expected that poor Mercy would want to get them right.

The envoy from the Seven Kingdoms had taken two of his guards into his box to stand behind him and the Black Pearl, but the other two had been posted just outside the door to make certain he was not disturbed. They were talking quietly in the Common Tongue of Westeros as she slipped up silently behind them in the darkened pa.s.sage. That was not a language Mercy knew.

aSeven h.e.l.ls, this place is damp,a she heard her guard complain. aIam chilled to the bones. Where are the b.l.o.o.d.y orange trees? I always heard there were orange trees in the Free Cities. Lemons and limes. Pomegranates. Hot peppers, warm nights, girls with bare bellies. Where are the bare-bellied girls, I ask you?a aDown in Lys, and Myr, and Old Volantis,a the other guard replied. He was an older man, big-bellied and grizzled. aI went to Lys with Lord Tywin once, when he was Hand to Aerys. Braavos is north of Kingas Landing, fool. Canat you read a b.l.o.o.d.y map?a aHow long do you think weall be here?a aLonger than youad like,a the old man replied. aIf he goes back without the gold the queen will have his head. Besides, I seen that wife of his. Thereas steps in Casterly Rock she canat go down for fear shead get stuck, thatas how fat she is. Whoad go back to that, when he has his sooty queen?a The handsome guardsman grinned. aDonat suppose heall share her with us, afterward?a aWhat, are you mad? You think he notices the likes of us? b.l.o.o.d.y b.u.g.g.e.r donat even get our names right half the time. Maybe it was different with Clegane.a aSer wasnat one for mummer shows and fancy wh.o.r.es. When Ser wanted a woman he took one, but sometimes head let us have her, after. I wouldnat mind having a taste of that Black Pearl. You think sheas pink between her legs?a Mercy wanted to hear more, but there was no time. The b.l.o.o.d.y Hand was about to start, and the Snapper would be looking for her to help with costumes. Izembaro might be the King of the Mummers, but the Snapper was the one that they all feared. Time enough for her pretty guardsman later.

The b.l.o.o.d.y Hand opened in a lichyard.

When the dwarf appeared suddenly from behind a wooden tombstone, the crowd began to hiss and curse. Bobono waddled to the front of the stage and leered at them. aThe seven-faced G.o.d has cheated me,a he began, snarling the words. aMy n.o.ble sire he made of purest gold, and gold he made my siblings, boy and girl. But I am formed of darker stuff, of bones and blood and claya a By then Marro had appeared behind him, gaunt and terrible in the Strangeras long black robes. His face was black as well, his teeth red and shiny with blood, while ivory horns jutted upwards from his brow. Bobono could not see him, but the balconies could, and now the pit as well. The Gate grew deathly quiet. Marro moved forward silently.

So did Mercy. The costumes were all hung, and the Snapper was busy sewing Daena into her gown for the court scene, so Mercyas absence should not be noted. Quiet as a shadow, she slipped around the back again, up to where the guardsmen stood outside the envoyas box. Standing in a darkened alcove, still as stone, she had a good look at his face. She studied it carefully, to be sure. Am I too young for him? she wondered. Too plain? Too skinny? She hoped he wasnat the sort of man who liked big b.r.e.a.s.t.s on a girl. Bobono had been right about her chest. It would be best if I could take him back to my place, have him all to myself. But will he come with me?

aYou think it might be him?a the pretty one was saying.

aWhat, did the Others take your wits?a aWhy not? Heas a dwarf, ainat he?a aThe Imp werenat the only dwarf in the world.a aMaybe not, but look here, everyone says how clever he was, true? So maybe he figures the last place his sister would ever look for him would be in some mummer show, making fun of himself. So he does just that, to tweak her nose.a aAh, youare mad.a aWell, maybe Iall follow him after the mummery. Find out for myself.a The guardsman put a hand on the hilt of his sword. aIf Iam right, Iall be a ma lord, and if Iam wrong, well, bleed it, itas just some dwarf.a He gave a bark of laughter.

On stage, Bobono was bargaining with Marroas sinister Stranger. He had a big voice for such a little man, and he made it ring off the highest rafters now. aGive me the cup,a he told the Stranger, afor I shall drink deep. And if it tastes of gold and lionas blood, so much the better. As I cannot be the hero, let me be the monster, and lesson them in fear in place of love.a Mercy mouthed the last lines along with him. They were better lines than hers, and apt besides. Heall want me or he wonat, she thought, so let the play begin. She said a silent prayer to the G.o.d of many faces, slipped out of her alcove, and flounced up to the guardsmen. Mercy, Mercy, Mercy. aMy lords,a she said, ado you speak Braavosi? Oh, please, tell me you do.a The two guardsmen exchanged a look. aWhatas this thing going on about?a the older one asked. aWho is she?a aOne of the mummers,a said the pretty one. He pushed his fair hair back off his brow and smiled at her. aSorry, sweetling, we donat speak your gibble-gabble.a Fuss and feathers, Mercy thought, they only know the Common Tongue. That was no good. Give it up or go ahead. She could not give it up. She wanted him so bad. aI know your tongue, a little,a she lied, with Mercyas sweetest smile. aYou are lords of Westeros, my friend said.a The old one laughed. aLords? Aye, thatas us.a Mercy looked down at her feet, so shy. aIzembaro said to please the lords,a she whispered. aIf there is anything you want, anything at alla a The two guardsmen exchanged a look. Then the handsome one reached out and touched her breast. aAnything?a aYouare disgusting,a said the older man.

aWhy? If this Izembaro wants to be hospitable, it would be rude to refuse.a He gave her nipple a tweak through the fabric of her dress, just the way the dwarf had done when she was fixing his c.o.c.k for him. aMummers are the next best thing to wh.o.r.es.a aMight be, but this one is a child.a aI am not,a lied Mercy. aIam a maiden now.a aNot for long,a said the comely one. aIam Lord Rafford, sweetling, and I know just what I want. Hike up those skirts now, and lean back against that wall.a aNot here,a Mercy said, brushing his hands away. aNot where the play is on. I might cry out, and Izembaro would be mad.a aWhere, then?a aI know a place.a The older guard was scowling. aWhat, you think can just scamper off? What if his knightliness comes looking for you?a aWhy would he? Heas got a show to watch. And heas got his own wh.o.r.e, why shouldnat I have mine? This wonat take long.a No, she thought, it wonat. Mercy took him by the hand, led him through the back and down the steps and out into the foggy night. aYou could be a mummer, if you wanted,a she told him, as he pressed her up against the wall of the playhouse.

aMe?a The guardsman snorted. aNot me, girl. All that b.l.o.o.d.y talking, I wouldnat remember half of it.a aItas hard at first,a she admitted. aBut after a time it comes easier. I could teach you to say a line. I could.a He grabbed her wrist. aIall do the teaching. Time for your first lesson.a He pulled her hard against him and kissed her on the lips, forcing his tongue into her mouth. It was all wet and slimy, like an eel. Mercy licked it with her own tongue, then broke away from him, breathless. aNot here. Someone might see. My roomas not far, but hurry. I have to be back before the second act, or Iall miss my rape.a He grinned. aNo fear oa that, girl.a But he let her pull him after her. Hand in hand, they went racing through the fog, over bridges and through alleys and up five flights of splintery wooden stairs. The guardsman was panting by the time they burst through the door of her little room. Mercy lit a tallow candle, then danced around at him, giggling. aOh, now youare all tired out. I forgot how old you were, malord. Do you want to take a little nap? Just lie down and close your eyes, and Iall come back after the Impas done raping me.a aYouare not going anywhere.a He pulled her roughly to him. aGet those rags off, and Iall show you how old I am, girl.a aMercy,a she said. aMy name is Mercy. Can you say it?a aMercy,a he said. aMy name is Raff.a aI know.a She slipped her hand between his legs, and felt how hard he was through the wool of his breeches.

aThe laces,a he urged her. aBe a sweet girl and undo them.a Instead she slid her finger down along the inside of his thigh. He gave a grunt. ad.a.m.n, be careful there, you a" a Mercy gave a gasp and stepped away, her face confused and frightened. aYouare bleeding.a aWha a" a He looked down at himself. aG.o.ds be good. What did you do to me, you little c.u.n.t?a The red stain spread across his thigh, soaking the heavy fabric.

aNothing,a Mercy squeaked. aI nevera oh, oh, thereas so much blood. Stop it, stop it, youare scaring me.a He shook his head, a dazed look on his face. When he pressed his hand to his thigh, blood squirted through his fingers. It was running down his leg, into his boot. He doesnat look so comely now, she thought. He just looks white and frightened.

aA towel,a the guardsman gasped. aBring me a towel, a rag, press down on it. G.o.ds. I feel dizzy.a His leg was drenched with blood from the thigh down. When he tried to put his weight on it, his knee buckled and he fell. aHelp me,a he pleaded, as the crotch of his breeches reddened. aMother have mercy, girl. A healera run and find a healer, quick now.a aThereas one on the next ca.n.a.l, but he wonat come. You have to go to him. Canat you walk?a aWalk?a His fingers were slick with blood. aAre you blind, girl? Iam bleeding like a stuck pig. I canat walk on this.a aWell,a she said, aI donat know how youall get there, then.a aYouall need to carry me.a See? thought Mercy. You know your line, and so do I.

aThink so?a asked Arya, sweetly.

Raff the Sweetling looked up sharply as the long thin blade came sliding from her sleeve. She slipped it through his throat beneath the chin, twisted, and ripped it back out sideways with a single smooth slash. A fine red rain followed, and in his eyes the light went out.

aValar morghulis,a Arya whispered, but Raff was dead and did not hear. She sniffed. I should have helped him down the steps before I killed him. Now Iall need to drag him all the way to the ca.n.a.l and roll him in. The eels would do the rest.

aMercy, Mercy, Mercy,a she sang sadly. A foolish, giddy girl shead been, but good hearted. She would miss her, and she would miss Daena and the Snapper and the rest, even Izembaro and Bobono. This would make trouble for the Sealord and the envoy with the chicken on his chest, she did not doubt.

She would think about that later, though. Just now, there was no time. I had best run. Mercy still had some lines to say, her first lines and her last, and Izembaro would have her pretty little empty head if she were late for her own rape.

ALAYNE.

She was reading her little lord a tale of the Winged Knight when Mya Stone came knocking on the door of his bedchamber, clad in boots and riding leathers and smelling strongly of the stable. Mya had straw in her hair and a scowl on her face. That scowl comes of having Mychel Redfort near, Alayne knew.

aYour lordship,a Mya informed Lord Robert, aLady Waynwoodas banners have been seen an hour down the road. She will be here soon, with your cousin Harry. Will you want to greet them?a Why did she have to mention Harry? Alayne thought. We will never get Sweetrobin out of bed now. The boy slapped a pillow. aSend them away. I never asked them here.a Mya looked nonplussed. No one in the Vale was better at handling a mule, but lordlings were another matter. aThey were invited,a she said uncertainly, afor the tourney. I donata a Alayne closed her book. aThank you, Mya. Let me talk with Lord Robert, if you would.a Relief plain on her face, Mya fled without another word.

aI hate that Harry,a Sweetrobin said when she was gone. aHe calls me cousin, but heas just waiting for me to die so he can take the Eyrie. He thinks I donat know, but I do.a aYour lordship should not believe such nonsense,a Alayne said. aIam sure Ser Harrold loves you well.a And if the G.o.ds are good, he will love me too. Her tummy gave a little flutter.

aHe doesnat,a Lord Robert insisted. aHe wants my fatheras castle, thatas all, so he pretends.a The boy clutched the blanket to his pimply chest. aI donat want you to marry him, Alayne. I am the Lord of the Eyrie, and I forbid it.a He sounded as if he were about to cry. aYou should marry me instead. We could sleep in the same bed every night, and you could read me stories.a No man can wed me so long as my dwarf husband still lives somewhere in this world. Queen Cersei had collected the head of a dozen dwarfs, Petyr claimed, but none were Tyrionas. aSweetrobin, you must not say such things. You are the Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, and you must wed a highborn lady and father a son to sit in the High Hall of House Arryn after you are gone.a Robert wiped his nose. aBut I want a" a She put a finger to his lips. aI know what you want, but it cannot be. I am no fit wife for you. I am b.a.s.t.a.r.d born.a aI donat care. I love you best of anyone. a You are such a little fool. aYour lords bannermen will care. Some call my father upjumped and ambitious. If you were to take me to wife, they would say that he made you do it, that it was no will of yours. The Lords Declarant might take arms against him once again, and he and I should both be put to death.a aI wouldnat let them hurt you!a Lord Robert said. aIf they try I will make them all fly.a His hand began to tremble.

Alayne stroked his fingers. aThere, my Sweetrobin, be still now.a When the shaking pa.s.sed, she said, aYou must have a proper wife, a trueborn maid of n.o.ble birth.a aNo. I want to marry you, Alayne.a Once your lady mother intended that very thing, but I was trueborn then, and n.o.ble. aMy lord is kind to say so.a Alayne smoothed his hair. Lady Lysa had never let the servants touch it, and after she had died Robert had suffered terrible shaking fits whenever anyone came near him with a blade, so it had been allowed to grow until it tumbled over his round shoulders and halfway down his flabby white chest. He does have pretty hair. If the G.o.ds are good and he lives long enough to wed, his wife will admire his hair, surely. That much she will love about him. aAny child of ours would be baseborn. Only a trueborn child of House Arryn can displace Ser Harrold as your heir. My father will find a proper wife for you, some highborn girl much prettier than me. Youall hunt and hawk together, and sheall give you her favor to wear in tournaments. Before long, you will have forgotten me entirely.a aI wonat!a aYou will. You must.a Her voice was firm, but gentle.

aThe Lord of the Eyrie can do as he likes. Canat I still love you, even if I have to marry her? Ser Harrold has a common woman. Benjicot says sheas carrying his b.a.s.t.a.r.d.a Benjicot should learn to keep his foolas mouth shut. aIs that what you would have from me? A b.a.s.t.a.r.d?a She pulled her fingers from his grasp. aWould you dishonor me that way?a The boy looked stricken. aNo. I never meant a" a Alayne stood. aIf it please my lord, I must go and find my father. Someone needs to greet Lady Waynwood.a Before her little lord could find the words to protest, she gave him a quick curtsy and fled the bedchamber, sweeping down the hall and across a covered bridge to the Lord Protectoras apartments.

When she had left Petyr Baelish that morning he had been breaking his fast with old Oswell who had arrived last night from Gulltown on a lathered horse. She hoped they might still be talking, but Petyras solar proved empty. Someone had left a window open and a stack of papers had blown onto the floor. The sun was slanting through the thick yellow windows, and dust motes danced in the light like tiny golden insects. Though snow had blanketed the heights of the Giantas Lance above, below the mountain the autumn lingered and winter wheat was ripening in the fields. Outside the window she could hear the laughter of the washerwomen at the well, the din of steel on steel from the ward where the knights were at their drills. Good sounds.

Alayne loved it here. She felt alive again, for the first since her fathera since Lord Eddard Stark had died.

She closed the window, gathered up the fallen papers, and stacked them on the table. One was a list of the compet.i.tors. Four-and-sixty knights had been invited to vie for places amongst Lord Robert Arrynas new Brotherhood of Winged Knights, and four and-sixty knights had come to tilt for the right to wear falconas wings upon their warhelms and guard their lord.

The compet.i.tors came from all over the Vale, from the mountain valleys and the coast, from Gulltown and the b.l.o.o.d.y Gate, even the Three Sisters. Though a few were promised, only three were wed; the eight victors would be expected to spend the next three years at Lord Robertas side, as his own personal guard (Alayne had suggested seven, like the Kingsguard, but Sweetrobin had insisted that he must have more knights than King Tommen), so older men with wives and children had not been invited.

And they came, Alayne thought proudly. They all came.

It had fallen out just as Petyr said it would, the day the ravens flew. aTheyare young, eager, hungry for adventure and renown. Lysa would not let them go to war. This is the next best thing. A chance to serve their lord and prove their prowess. They will come. Even Harry the Heir.a He had smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead. aWhat a clever daughter you are.a It was clever. The tourney, the prizes, the winged knights, it had all been her own notion. Lord Robertas mother had filled him full of fears, but he always took courage from the tales she read him of Ser Artys Arryn, the Winged Knight of legend, founder of his line. Why not surround him with Winged Knights? She had thought one night, after Sweetrobin had finally drifted off to sleep. His own Kingsguard, to keep him safe and make him brave. And no sooner did she tell Petyr her idea than he went out and made it happen. He will want to be there to greet Ser Harrold. Where could he have gone?

Alayne swept down the tower stairs to enter the pillared gallery at the back of the Great Hall. Below her, serving men were setting up trestle tables for the evening feast, while their wives and daughters swept up the old rushes and scattered fresh ones. Lord Nestor was showing Lady Waxley his prize tapestries, with their scenes of hunt and chase. The same panels had once hung in the Red Keep of Kingas Landing, when Robert sat the Iron Throne. Joffrey had them taken down and they had languished in some cellar until Petyr Baelish arranged for them to be brought to the Vale as a gift for Nestor Royce. Not only were the hangings beautiful, but the High Steward delighted in telling anyone whoad listen that they had once belonged to a king.

Petyr was not in the Great Hall. Alayne crossed the gallery and descended the stair built into the thick west wall, to come out in the inner ward, where the jousting would be held. Viewing stands had raised for all those who had come to watch, with four long tilting barriers in between. Lord Nestoras men were painting the barriers with whitewash, draping the stands with bright banners, and hanging shields on the gate the compet.i.tors would pa.s.s through when they made their entrance.

At the north end of the yard, three quintains had been set up, and some of the compet.i.tors were riding at them. Alayne knew them by their shields; the bells of Belmore, green vipers for the Lynderlys, the red sledge of Breakstone, House Tollettas black and grey pily. Ser Mychel Redfort set one quintain spinning with a perfectly placed blow. He was one of those favored to win wings.