Naharis, sitting on the throne where she once did, seemed plumper than when Jorah Mormont last saw him. He knew it best not to comment on appearance, for Jorah himself looked a world away. His weaker hand was all but lost to the greyscale, greyscale that was beginning to touch his cheeks. Even though the disease had reached his chest and head, today was not the day Jorah was to lose his mind. He wondered if it was tomorrow.
“The gods have not looked upon you kindly,” Naharis said from his throne. “Neither has our queen. Do you have a message from her? Does she wish me to rule the Red Waste as well?”
The tone was cheery, but the jabs were not subtle enough for Jorah to miss. He was an aged man, staring death in the face; such pretensions had little patience for him. “Our queen commanded you to do your duty. Dragon’s Bay is her legacy.”
“It is her legacy, yes,” retorted Daario, “My legacy is to fight and drink and fuck, but while she battles for the throne of Westeros, I sit listening to problems on grain and gold. I refuse to be left behind when a great battle brews a world away. I have met many people on my travels, one of them a Westerosi lord who will offer me more than Daenerys has. Remind our queen that I am a sellsword, and sellswords can offer themselves to Greyjoys just as well as Targaryens.”
“I am not here as her envoy.” Jorah would have dearly loved to tell Daario what he thought of Euron Greyjoy, but believed it best not to argue with the man who commanded the armies of the city. “The rebirth of Meereen, the freeing of the slaves, all of it has made Meereen the light of trade and commerce. My grayscale has reached beyond Westerosi maesters. If I am to live, I may have to put my faith in fire priestesses and sorcerers.”
Daario seemed disappointed that Jorah was not sent by the queen. Nevertheless, his countenance softened. “There is a maegi,” he offered, “who claims to be from Sothoryos, versed in bloodmagic. Maybe she can be of more help to you than the queen has been to us.”
*
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