When Goghor the Giant was raised from Mereenese pit-fighter to protector of His Magnificence Daario Naharis, he thought the job would be more honorable than standing in sweltering summer. There he was, guarding the entrance to the pyramid where inside His Radiance, under guise of ruling, munched on grapes from Qarth and fucked whores from Lorath.
Beside him stood Brown Ben Plumm, captain of the Stormcrows, reduced to standing meekly at thresholds. For his apparent fall in stature, the old man seemed merry. Whenever Goghor probed him, he simply said, “The pay is good, trouble is scarce, and I am an old man now. There are old sellswords and bold sellswords, but no old bold sellswords.”
Goghor the Giant was not old yet. His heart yearned for combat, but combat was hard to find in this city. After the dragons had bathed the ships of the Masters in flames, no one dared defy Daenerys Targaryen’s men. Even crime was poor, save the odd drunkard.
Here comes another now, Goghor mused as a hooded figure approached the men, seeking audience with Naharis. Before Goghor could swing his finely sharpened arakh in warning, Ben Plumm motioned him not to. He seemed to recognize the voice. “And what brings you here, friend?” he asked. “Do you carry a message from the queen?”
“I do not,” replied his slow, somber voice. “I come of my own accord.” He removed his hood to reveal a cracked, stony visage. “Be careful not to touch me.”
*
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