Chapter 149: A Match Made in Heaven
A woman will only slow the drawing of a man's sword, Ian thought to himself, but a rich woman will buy him the fastest and finest sword there is. The old saying came to him, unbidden.
He was considering Celia. The daughter of Marianne Freygar, the wealthiest keykeeper of the Iron Bank, and the sister of Prince Hazan. And that was to say nothing of her family's invincible genetics—the entire line was blessed with near-perfect looks.
Even if Celia were homely, could he truly refuse such an opportunity? A direct and stable alliance with the Iron Bank.
The world will deceive you, but money never will.
"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Ian said, needing to be certain he hadn't misheard. "I'm not sure I fully understand what you mean."
"Ian, your House Darry has a bloodline stretching back six thousand years," Hazan began, conspicuously omitting his own father's surname, Moharis. "And our Freygar family is equally ancient and glorious. You are now Hand of the King to His Majesty Viserys. In my eyes, you and my sister are a match made in heaven. So…"
"I would be honored, Your Highness," Ian interjected, not allowing Hazan to ask the question a second time. He put on a look of delighted surprise—half of it was genuine, the other half was a practiced mask.
He glanced at Celia, who sat beside the prince, and crafted his words with ease. "To be honest, the moment I first saw your sister at Khal Drogo's banquet, she captured my entire heart. I humbly request that you grant me her hand in marriage."
"Of course," Hazan laughed, clearly pleased by Ian's forwardness. "Then it is settled. We shall be brothers. Perhaps you can make it so as soon as possible—"
"However," Ian cut in smoothly, "I hope that the date of our engagement, and indeed the news itself, can be announced *after* I have helped you successfully convince Governor Illyrio. You see, the governor has not yet agreed to join our camp." Ian deliberately used the word "our," counting himself among Hazan's faction.
"If word of my betrothal to your sister were to spread at this time," he continued, "it might compromise the 'objectivity' of my counsel in Governor Illyrio's eyes. It could even damage the trust he has in me, which would be detrimental to my efforts to lobby him."
As he finished speaking, Ian secretly watched Hazan for a reaction. This was his greatest worry. He had anticipated an eventual break with Illyrio, but only after he had seized Slaver's Bay—not now. If he had to make the break sooner, it would have to be after he left Pentos with the Khal and his people. Only then would he be truly free of Illyrio's influence.
Hazan hesitated for a noticeable moment before nodding in agreement. "You are right, Ian. I had not considered that. We cannot announce this news yet."
*He has no intention of winning over Illyrio,* the thought struck Ian like a physical blow. Hazan's momentary hesitation, combined with his earlier behavior when Ian had offered to persuade the governor, all pointed to the same conclusion.
But how was that possible?
"I will convince Lord Illyrio as soon as I can," Ian said, testing the prince again. He gave Hazan a reassuring look. "I am certain your sister will not be kept waiting for long."
"That is your prerogative, Ian," Hazan agreed readily, raising no objection at all.
*You actually agreed? How?* Ian frowned, his mind racing.
Just then, he saw Jorah Mormont walking toward the preparation area below the fighting platform. "Look, Your Highness. Jorah is taking the field," he said, seizing the chance to pause their conversation. "Let us enjoy his battle."
Hazan turned his gaze to the arena. The previous match had been a fight to the death. The victor had secured his place in the tournament; the challenger had left his life on the sand.
Slaves moved onto the field with practiced efficiency, dragging the corpse away. They cleaned up the scattered viscera and severed limbs before spreading a thick, fresh layer of yellow sand to cover the dark stains of blood.
A horn blew, and Jorah and his opponent stepped onto the fighting stage.
Ser Jorah Mormont wore his iconic suit of composite plate armor. He held his longsword in a two-handed grip, the tip pointed toward his adversary, his arms level with his shoulders.
His opponent was a typical pit fighter—dark-skinned, short, and fierce. He only came up to Jorah's chest, but his movements were so nimble that Jorah dared not make a reckless charge. The slave warrior carried a steel hatchet in one hand and a crude log shield in the other. The two men circled each other at the edge of the platform, each probing for an opening.
As Ian watched, his mind continued to wrestle with Hazan's strange behavior.
In the pit, the two fighters launched several tentative attacks. Metal rang against metal, striking sparks into the air, but they broke apart just as quickly, resuming their cautious circling.
Ian counted three times Jorah's sword struck the opponent's log shield, each blow leaving only a shallow gash and sending a spray of splinters into the air. The slave warrior had launched six attacks of his own. Three missed entirely. Two glanced harmlessly off Jorah's breastplate, and one was deflected by his arm guard.
This kind of contest, where fighters brought their own equipment, was inherently unfair. The man with the better armor held a clear advantage. But it was not an absolute one. After all, Prince Hazan and his rival, Suda Tetrus, had more than enough funds to equip their champions with the finest armor money could buy. If some fighters chose not to wear it, it was only because the heavy plate would hinder their effectiveness.
A sudden roar from the crowd shattered Ian's thoughts. The slave warrior had finally made his move. He charged Jorah, running straight toward the knight's descending blade. At the last possible second, he dropped into a low slide, his back scraping the sand.
With a guttural war cry, the slave dodged the sword meant for his head. His body slid across the ground, and he swung the short axe in his hand in a vicious arc aimed between Jorah's legs.
Jorah's reaction was astonishingly fast. The instant the man began to slide, Jorah raised his knee, driving his steel-cased greave upward into his opponent's chin. The impact was brutal. The slave warrior was thrown backward, shattered teeth scattering across the sand as bloody spittle flew from his mouth.
The heavy blow sent his insidious axe strike wide of its mark. The weapon clanged against Jorah's skirt armor, the force of the impact lodging the axe head in the ground.
The slave warrior scrambled to his feet, barely having time to wipe the bloody sand from his face before Jorah's sword was upon him. In a desperate move, he scooped up a handful of sand and flung it at Jorah's helm.
As Jorah turned his head to avoid the grit, the slave warrior lunged, wrapping his arms around the knight's legs and pulling with all his might. Encumbered by his heavy armor, Jorah crashed to the ground with a deafening clang of steel, sending up a cloud of yellow dust.
"A dirty tactic," Prince Hazan commented, leaning toward Ian. "Many knights in Westeros would scorn such a thing, but it can bring victory."
"No," Ian shook his head. "Jorah is no knight either." He was surprised by the man's strength. It seemed the television show's depiction of him in the fighting pits of Meereen had not been entirely fiction.
True to form, just as the slave warrior leaped onto the fallen knight, trying to drive a dagger into the gap between his gorget and shoulder plate, Jorah slammed his iron-helmeted head forward. The headbutt landed squarely on the slave's face, shattering his nose with an audible crack.
As his opponent reeled, momentarily blinded by pain, Jorah drove a knee into his groin. With a powerful heave, he flipped the man onto the ground and began to rain down blows with his iron-gauntleted fists. The slave's face was quickly reduced to a bloody pulp, his features becoming indistinguishable as dark red blood streamed down his cheeks.
Confirming his opponent was incapacitated, Jorah rose to his feet. He planted his steel-shod boot on the slave's right hand—the one still clutching the dagger. A sickening crunch of breaking finger bones, audible only to the slave himself, echoed in the sudden silence. Jorah calmly plucked the dagger from the man's ruined hand and, without a shred of mercy, drew it across his throat.
The next moment, the entire arena erupted in a thunderous cheer.
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