TYRION

Meereen was the most putrid, festering shitpile of a city that Tyrion Lannister had ever set stunted foot in, and considering it was up against King's Landing as competition, that was a lofty crown. Once upon a benighted time, he might have thought that this was where whores went – that they'd have to, in this place with the rest of the refuse, the gutters literally running with blood, the dead and dying huddled along alleys and plazas. It was difficult to tell who had happened along in the course of nature and who had been launched over the walls by the Yunkish catapults; they tended to be equally stomach-turning. The bricks baked a visceral red-brown, and flies buzzed like plague. The Volantene fleet was blockading the harbor to all sides, cutting off trade and food – he should refrain from gambling for a while, seeing how sorely he had mistaken their temperament. He had been sure that the elephants would retain power in the triarchy elections, but somehow, the tigers had pulled off a stunning upset. Freed to wage war for the first time in a hundred years, Volantis had then flexed its might, wanting to establish itself as a Free City to be reckoned with, and hence sent the great part of their naval power to interfere with the affairs of Slaver's Bay, a name more apt than ever. And the sad part is, this is genuinely preferable to the alternative.

It hadn't been as hard for the Second Sons to enter the city as Tyrion, who had heard ghoulish tales of sewers and giant rats, had feared. He had jested that if worse came to worse, they could always strap themselves to the catapults and hope for the best, but mercifully, such drastic expedients had proved unnecessary. Instead, the Second Sons had merely taken a look about the Yunkish camp, realized that the pale mare had all but done their work for them, and busily hacked the head off any Wise Master who was not too rotted to be recognizable. Macabre trophies in hand, they presented themselves at the city gates and sued for admittance. Ser Barristan Selmy had vigorously opposed it, and as the Queen's Hand, one would expect his opinion to carry some weight. About as much as half a damn. Hizdahr zo Loraq and his stooges still ruled the city, and as they were sorely in need of anything more or less male and more or less breathing, they agreed. The only way I would have qualified, Tyrion thought sourly, though it does leave Penny somewhat a mystery.

Therefore, here he was in bloody Meereen at last, with a lot of unruly sellswords and one dwarf girl. Pity Jorah ran off to get killed. Now we'll have to find another bear. His services at falling off a pig would be required again beyond a doubt. And real bears have claws.

Tyrion did hope that he would not have to defend the decision to Selmy in person. He'd grown up hearing tales of Barristan the Bold in the same breath as Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Serwyn of the Mirror Shield, and was not surprised that the man had now cropped up here, serving Aerys Targaryen's daughter. He has a bloody good reason for it, I hope. As one of the Mad King's chosen seven, Selmy had been intimately privy to his downward spiral and destruction. If only Aerys had asked the other Lannister son to kill their father, he might be cutting himself on the Iron Throne to this day. Now there was a thought too horrible to contemplate.

Nonetheless, Tyrion's reasons for wanting to avoid an audience with Selmy ran decidedly more to the pragmatic. For one, it would probably result in him being launched out of Meereen in every sense of the word, and second, he was hoping to keep as low a profile as possible. They were far enough from King's Landing by now that he no longer considered Cersei's wrath a real threat, but tales traveled, and he was far from the world's most inconspicuous fellow. Aye, and you helpfully identified yourself to half the bloody city, watching that folly in Daznak's Pit.

At the moment, Tyrion's duties supposedly consisted of helping the Second Sons locate the Harpy, a task which was almost impossible due to numerous excellent reasons. First and foremost, their continued presence in the city hinged on the forbearance of Hizdahr and his minions, and if they began to sniff too closely about such delicate matters, Tyrion had no doubt that he would wake up to find the Harpy under his bed. After not quite two weeks in Meereen, he was beginning to suspect strongly that the queen had had the right of it, jumping aboard her dragon and buggering off to parts unknown. The only mystery was what had taken her so long about it. Secondly, while it seemed increasingly certain that the queen was in fact alive and in the custody of some large khalasar somewhere, the Second Sons had to manage the neat trick of convincing Hizdahr that they were on his side, while simultaneously being able to prove to Daenerys, when and if she should return, that they were not actually bald-faced traitors and therefore not meritorious of instant execution by dragonfire. Personally, Tyrion thought the error lay with the queen, for expecting anything else from sellswords. He had paid Bronn handsomely, given him a knighthood and a far more comfortable life than he'd ever have had knocking heads and cutting throats, but he had never deluded himself that the man was anything else than what he was. Well, maybe slightly. But it was nothing compared to my others.

To furtherly snarl the skein, they had learned that the queen's other two dragons had taken happy advantage of Quentyn Martell's idiocy in order to escape their chains. They now made their roost in the ruined Pyramid of Hazkar, which was shunned religiously by the Meereenese as a result. Tyrion was surprised to hear that the sundry Dornish lordling roasted to death had in fact been Prince Doran's whelp – the presence of a Martell vying for the hand of a Targaryen queen raised all sorts of fascinating questions about what they might really be up to down in Sunspear. Tyrion fervently hoped that his niece Myrcella was still engaged to marry Quentyn's little brother Trystane. That would be the perfect stab in the heart for Cersei. As for Quentyn, it wouldn't be the first time a Martell wed a Targaryen, and look how well that ended up. Mayhaps Daenerys had the right idea, refusing him.

There was, alas, only one solution that Tyrion could see. Ironically, it was the exact one he had hoped to avoid. But if Ser Barristan Selmy had a drop of brains in his head, he would claim that the dragons would grow increasingly restive the longer their 'mother' was gone, until they would break loose for good and destroy the entire city. It could only be an improvement. Even Hizdahr zo Loraq and his bloody Harpies might balk at calling that bluff. And if Selmy hasn't thought of it, someone will have to tell him. Someone short and ugly, missing a nose and other parts of lesser importance. And who will soon be gracing the Yunkish camp with his short, ugly, noseless corpse, if this should go amiss.

It seemed that he was going to have to renew old acquaintances after all.

The Second Sons had taken lodging in some shabby, seedy hostel on the far side of the city from the Great Pyramid, and Tyrion's legs were aching before they had gone halfway. He'd taken Kasporio and one other serjeant as his bodyguards; if he was going to die, he did not intend to do so while having to listen to Kem making some terrible jest about flying pigs. It was early morning, but the sun was already at full roar. A few servants were tottering about their errands, trying to find merchants who still had goods to sell, and buckets of uniformly noxious fluids were emptied at random from second-and-third-story windows. This is a city of dead men. Present company certainly not excepted.

At last, having avoided some sort of gruesome disaster merely thrice, they arrived at the Pyramid. The seneschal was not happy to see them, and even less so to hear their names and business, but a few rattles of Kasporio's sword, along with a casual mention of dragons, induced him to cooperate. Mumbling undoubtedly frightful oaths under his breath, he departed to fetch Barristan Selmy.

Tyrion glanced around. The endless steps up the pyramid's colossal interior had been brutally painful for him, and if he hadn't been told that this was just the antechamber, he would have taken it for the audience room itself. It was high and vaulted, decorated with hideous statues on bronze plinths; a heady incense burned in clay pots, and elaborate glyphs were worked into the pale stone walls. It was cooler here than outside, but not by much, no matter the exertions of a few loincloth-clad beefcakes in the corner, waving palm fans as if their lives depended on it. In this place, likely they do. Tyrion had just started to wonder if this might be hell, when a voice behind him snapped his reverie with a start.

"My lord of Lannister." Possibly Barristan Selmy could have sounded more shocked and annoyed, but Tyrion was hard put to see how.

He turned, offering as elegant a bow as he was capable of. "Ser Barristan. I'm on the tour of Essos and the Free Cities that my father never got around to giving me. I'm confident he wouldn't have approved. Is there somewhere we may speak privily?"

Selmy studied him without answering, blue gaze cold and guarded as a frozen lake. Tyrion had to admit that the old man still looked as strong and fit as ever; his white hair was cropped close and there was a stubble of unshaven beard on his chin. In deference to the heat, he was not wearing his full mail and leather, but rather a lighter hauberk of copper scales, with a white chainse below and a black tabard above, emblazoned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen. He risked his own life to save King Aerys during the Defiance of Duskendale, the dwarf recalled, and then nearly died again fighting for Rhaegar on the Trident. Doubtless he feels that he has only come home. As with sellswords and warhorses, truly honorable men were a dangerous breed that had to be approached with eyes wide open and a lump of sugar in hand. So watch me clap shut them both and somehow cock this up.

"Kasporio," Selmy said at last, addressing Tyrion's left shoulder. "I had not heard that the Second Sons were returned to Meereen." Which was transparently a lie, as he was the one who had supposedly forbade them entrance, but Tyrion could hear what he meant by it. Not on my warrant.

"Seems you haven't heard a deal of things, Ser Grandfather," Kasporio replied jauntily. "No wonder your record of failing to protect your monarch is still intact."

Ser Barristan's hand dropped to his sword hilt. "I have not come to be sported with by an insolent – "

"Kasporio," Tyrion interjected hastily. "There are any number of other folk in Meereen for you to practice your wit on. You may both find them, if you please. I suggest one of the dead ones."

For a moment, the two sellswords looked as if they might refuse, but offered identical sardonic nods before turning and marching out. Tyrion watched them go, hoping that he hadn't been too hasty in dismissing them. Ideally, it proved to Ser Barristan that his intentions were sincere, but if the old knight didn't believe it, he would shortly be an undersized red splotch on the flagstones. Better that than the catapults.

"My lord," Ser Barristan said again, in a voice barely this side of civility. "As you doubtless are aware, the Second Sons will find no welcome in Meereen so long as Queen Daenerys rules here. And since you have presumed to enter with them, you must – "

"You see, that's just it. Kasporio's phrasing was a touch indelicate, I grant you, but his point was sound. Queen Daenerys doesn't rule here now. And if you're interested in altering that fact, and saving all your lives, you'll listen to what I have to say."

Selmy's patently dubious expression did not alter. "So you're here on my side, is that what you mean to tell me?"

"Well. . . yes. But I suspect there are unwanted ears everywhere. As I said, a moment? Alone? You're quite safe, I have no crossbow."

"Crossbow?" At last, Ser Barristan's face changed slightly, showing confusion. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"I'd tell you if you wanted to know, but rest assured, you don't. If you would, my lord. I've taken a great risk coming to you, and I do so much crave your sage counsel." That was only more or less true, but men like Ser Barristan, whose entire function in life was to dispense sage counsel, might be more susceptible to it.

The old knight hesitated, then finally turned, jerked up a hand, and led them though a set of inlaid wooden doors to a walled garden beyond. A few browning trees kept the worst of the heat off, and there was a modestly shady spot by a dried-up fountain. It was here that Tyrion saw that despite the death, ruin, and destruction, Meereen must have been a beautiful city once. In its way. If one is fond of harpies and slaves. He admired Daenerys' noble intentions, but could have told her that it was useless. There are no chains so strong as the ones men forge for themselves.

"Sit," Ser Barristan said, indicating a stone bench. "I must say, my lord, you were rather low on the list of men I expected to turn up here."

"Where was I?" Tyrion hoisted himself up. "Somewhere between Ned Stark and Baelor the Blessed?"

"Somewhere." Ser Barristan's mouth twitched, as if briefly threatening to smile, but he mastered himself again at once. "The only way your name will ever be mentioned in a sentence with those two, I imagine."

"Oh, I devoutly agree. For a start, both those paragons of honor and virtue are as dead and rotting as the stiffs in your streets, whilst I am still about to plague the realm." Tyrion gingerly stretched his cramped legs. "I cast a large shadow for such a small man. Westeros itself was not enough to contain me."

"So I see," Selmy said noncommittally. "Somehow I doubt this tour you speak of was of your devising, or your father's."

"Your mind is still sharp as your blade, Ser Barristan. My father will be devising nothing now. He's looking up at Stark and Baelor from below."

Selmy's surprise was apparent. "Lord Tywin is dead?"

"Yes. That was where the part about the crossbow comes in. I killed him."

It was impossible to tell exactly what the old knight thought, but Tyrion thought the smile might have slipped free. Should I tell him now that my lord father succeeded in arranging the deaths of Rhaenys and Elia, but not Aegon? No, it was far too risky, even if the prospect was vastly intriguing. What would a man like Ser Barristan do, faced with such a choice? Abandon the queen he had loyally served in this rat's nest to travel to the rightful heir, or convince himself that Aegon was a fraud, and his Daenerys still the hope and future of the dynasty? I shall have to find out someday.

"Your lord father gave many years of service to the realm," Selmy said, which was doubtless the most cordial epitaph he could think of. "I am sure the Father will judge him justly."

"My lord father was a shit in silk, Ser Barristan. You need not temper your words around me. Even the gods washed their hands of him."

"Be that as it may," Selmy answered crisply, "I am far more interested in your own purpose here, Lord Tyrion. We had heard that King Joffrey was dead, and – "

"He is, and he deserved it even more richly than his grandsire. It was just my luck to be born into such a loathsome family, don't you agree? But since you've heard it, you'll have heard as well who was blamed for it."

The old knight paused. "Aye."

"Are you going to ask me if I did it?"

"Did you do it?"

"Would I tell you if I had?"

"You have not changed at all, my lord."

"Aside from the nose and the drinking problem, but those are trifles." Tyrion gave an airy shrug. "To date, I've either committed or been accused of matricide, patricide, regicide, and fratricide, and for some time I was considering suicide, just to make it neat. But for some unfathomable reason, I have decided that I'm not ready to die just yet. If you're not either, you'll listen to what I propose."

"And that is?" Selmy was curious, despite himself.

"Just this." Tyrion told him.

When he was finished, the old knight sat in silence for several moments, digesting. It was clear that he was relieved beyond measure to learn of his queen's survival, but relief was tempered by the fact that he had, after all, heard it from a Lannister. Then he said, "My lord, this is all very interesting. But if Daenerys is alive, it is my duty to go at once and find her. I know not about yours."

Tyrion had been afraid of that. "Actually," he said quickly, "you needn't bother. There's already one well-intentioned fool out there blundering after her, a second would be of no appreciable use at all."

Selmy hadn't expected that either. "Who?"

Tyrion hesitated, but there could be no harm in telling that the bloody bear hadn't brought upon himself. "Ser Jorah Mormont."

"He's back as well?" Selmy's lips went tight. "The man who sold slaves, who bartered Her Grace's secrets for coin, who would have murdered for a pardon – "

"I understand the air is quite thin up where you're sitting, Selmy, but it seems to me that Ser Jorah is out there actually attempting to rescue the queen, whereas you are stuck being outsmarted by a dwarf. And let there be no doubt, Mormont's feelings for her are genuine. Only true love would lead to a man destroying himself like this."

Ser Barristan appeared to be on the brink of a sharp comeback, but something occurred to him, and he went quiet. Tyrion eyed him interestedly, wondering who his ghost was. There must be one, even for brave and valiant Barristan Selmy. "Well," he said. "Even if Mormont's attempt meets its likely end, there is still the dragon to consider. Is Daenerys the sort of woman who gets herself out of the messes she makes? Judging by the result of Meereen, it's hard to be sure."

"Her Grace has done her best here," Selmy said coolly.

"Gods, I hope not." The time was past to worry about insulting him, Tyrion decided. Ser Barristan was no fool; he must see that he was sitting inside an abattoir while a powerful and unknown enemy skulked about and continued to target his fellows at random. "Why did the queen stay? It is a real throne that awaits her in Westeros, and there's enough competition for it as it is. Including from some with remarkably familiar faces."

Selmy hesitated. "If the decision was mine, we would have made for Westeros," he admitted. "But Queen Daenerys did not feel that it was just to simply sack Meereen and move on, that she must learn to rule one conquered city before she could hope to hold a conquered kingdom."

"There's a sort of noble logic in that, I suppose. But from the looks of the place, it would have been kinder to leave it sacked."

Ser Barristan sighed. He suddenly looked every one of his almost seventy years. "I hold King Hizdahr technically a captive, but I cannot prevent him from making decisions and continuing to rule the city – decisions such as allowing the Second Sons back inside the walls, it would seem. He is Daenerys' consort, however little I like it. And since it was learned that I presumed to lay hands on him and slay his protector, the Harpies have begun to kill two or three men a night. Sometimes more."

"I have heard." Tyrion had seen the bodies of some of them as well: Shavepates, freedmen, Unsullied, all with the distinctive Harpy sigil daubed in blood on the nearest convenient surface. "Ser Barristan, I understand that this will come hard for you, but if you have Loraq as your captive, you need to make an answer to the murders. He is as good a culprit as any. Kill him. Your queen will be freed from an undesirable and useless marriage, and the Meereenese may finally begin to believe that your western threats have teeth. Harpy is as harpy does."

Selmy, as Tyrion had expected, looked revolted. "This. . . this foul work. . . you would have me sink to their level. . ."

"You can only begin swimming once you've gone over the edge. Otherwise you're apt to be dragged to the bottom and drowned by a stone man. That was just one of the life lessons I learned aboard that boat in the Rhoyne. Would you like to know the others?"

"You speak like a madman. If you think you can convince me with this – "

It was no good, Tyrion saw. He was going to have to pull the trump card. "Ser Barristan."

"My lord of Lannister?"

"There is one very good reason why your queen's occupation of Meereen should be ended, and her person, preferably with her dragons, making all good speed to Westeros at once. If not, she's like to find the Iron Throne whisked out from beneath her, and not by my nephew. By hers."

Selmy stared blankly at him. The magnitude of what he was suggesting must be too much to take in at once. Finally the old knight said, "I am afraid I do not possibly understand. Prince Viserys died unwed, there is no indication that he fathered a bastard anywhere, and Prince Rhaegar's children – "

"Rhaenys is still dead. Aegon is not."

"You. . ." Selmy couldn't get the barest fragments of a sentence out. "This. . ."

"I'd like to say it's a lie. It would be a deal safer for everyone. Alas, I have looked on the lad with my own eyes. I traveled with him a way, before Ser Jorah kidnapped me. And while he may eventually have decided to go to Westeros by himself, I first suggested the idea to him. It was more equitable than him turning up here as a pauper to beg at Daenerys' door, never a wise idea to start with. I heard what happened to Quentyn Martell."

"You. . ." Ser Barristan's face was performing all sorts of remarkable contortions. "You mean to tell me that this so-called Aegon is in Westeros?"

"Assuming no storms or shipwrecks, yes. With the Golden Company in tow, and his father's old dear friend, Lord Jon Connington. Do you see now how a bit of urgency would greatly behoove your absent queen? And what's more, if you kill Hizdahr, Daenerys would then be free to marry Aegon. A restoration of the Targaryen dynasty, just as you must have dreamed about. Don't tell me you haven't dreamed about it, Selmy."

"This. . ." Poor Ser Barristan was still knocked for a loop, but a sudden fire had come into his face. He wants it. Of course he does. He wants to believe it, just like Connington did and all the rest. "Prince Rhaegar's son. . . how is this even possible. . ."

"The tale I was given was that our puissant Lord Varys switched him with a peasant's babe, which was the one Gregor Clegane subsequently brained on the wall. It's no more impossible than, say, Lord Tywin Lannister being murdered on his privy and failing to shit gold. Do it, Selmy. Give us fair warning, and I can deliver the Second Sons to your side. Brown Ben will join you quick as spit if you look like to win – he's a sellsword, after all. And the last time I looked, there was a Volantene fleet besieging you on one side, a plague-ridden Yunkish camp on the other, while you sit on your hands and hope your queen will come home. I'd say the time when you could afford inaction is long past."

"Murder Hizdahr, and the entire city will rise against us."

"Then." Tyrion smiled thinly. "Then you unleash the dragons. You see, my lord? The best lies always contain a kernel of truth."

"You are despicable, Imp."

"I'm aware of it. And we'll all be dead unless I stay that way."

He could see the indecision on Selmy's face, warring with the anger and the evolving awareness that there might indeed be only one course of action. "If Her Grace was to return," the old knight said at last, "and found that by my actions, I had undone everything she had ever labored to achieve. . ."

"You wouldn't enjoy it, I imagine. I've seen from Ser Jorah how well she forgives such offenses. But if that's going to stop you from doing what must be done, I'm wasting my time and we can all throw ourselves off the walls right now."

"This. . ." Selmy wanted one more reason not to, Tyrion could tell. "You are certain that this boy is Aegon? Truly Aegon?"

"I'm certain of nothing but winter and taxes. And that whoever he is, he's going to take the Iron Throne if he can. He can do it with Daenerys as his queen or without her." Tyrion shrugged. "The former would be preferable, of course. Do let us know if we can still call you Barristan the Bold, or if Barristan the Old will have to become permanent."

Selmy took a deep breath. "You are correct, my lord of Lannister," he said, in a voice that sounded as if he was agreeing to be infested with hookworms. "Action must be taken. It will be tonight. Return to your hostel, you shall be of no use here."

"Gladly. I've said my piece." Tyrion hopped to his feet. "I hope the Harpies haven't gotten to Kasporio and his friend during our chat. I'll see you anon, ser?"

Selmy gave a noncommittal grunt in reply, which Tyrion took for assent. Daenerys should grovel at my feet in thanks, for what I've done for her. He thought of how Aegon the Conqueror had taken both his sisters to wife, and that saying the Targaryens had always been tediously fond of, how the dragon had three heads. She might marry Aegon, but mayhaps she can marry me as well. I'll serve her as well as any consort, fuck her until she moans, and never call her Tysha unless I'm exceedingly drunk.

It was a very long walk back to the hostel.

Thinking of Ser Barristan's plan made Tyrion as restless as a caged cat for the rest of the afternoon. He made a brief stop to Brown Ben Plumm to inform him of the scheme, and that it would be unwise to be abroad tonight. The sellsword captain grunted in what might have been amusement, but he had deserted Daenerys' cause after hearing that she could not control her dragons, and his mistrust of them had not waned in the least. Nonetheless, he was far from grieved to hear that something was finally going to come of the long stalemate. "Burn a few o' them Volantene ships at anchor, mayhaps," he remarked. "I still say we could have done well for 'em, but if not, better to leave no temptation behind."

"Quite," Tyrion agreed. "Well, all we have to do is hope that Ser Barristan's scruples do not overwhelm his desperation. He'll kill Hizdahr at the second bell – he'll feel that he has to take on the responsibility himself, the thundering noble fool, and send Grey Worm and the Unsullied to release the dragons. They know him, so theoretically we won't have a repeat of the Quentyn incident. Then we stay low, and wait to rise from the ashes. You could always change the sigil of the company to a phoenix, you know."

"Oh, bugger off," Brown Ben said. "There's a deal could go wrong, but it's a risk I suppose we'll have to run. Very well. I'll tell my lads to stay low. You do the same with your whore."

"She is not my whore." It was useless to tell him, or any of the Second Sons. They all remained vastly amused by the idea of two dwarfs fucking.

"Whatever she is, keep her out o' the way. I'm not responsible for her if those beasts decide to get carried away. How much of Meereen d'you think they intend to burn?"

"I hope for the lot of it, personally."

Brown Ben grunted again. "Couldn't hurt. You'd still best be thinking of how you're going to get me all that gold, mind. Go on with you."

Tyrion reverenced sardonically and took his leave. He had, after much grief, managed to get a private room for himself and Penny, as much to stop her wittering on about Pretty Pig and Crunch as anything. It was only by a miracle that they hadn't been turned into supper yet; food was at an eye-wateringly high premium and most of it would not have been out of place in those pot shops in Flea Bottom, the one where he'd sent Symon Silvertongue. Tyrion made it a point to avoid eating anything remotely meatlike, which meant he made do with a revolting mash of grubs and tubers, but it was better than the alternative.

Much to his surprise, therefore, Penny was absent when he entered. The pig and the dog were tied up in their usual places, and also as usual, Pretty Pig had shat over everything remotely nearby. Penny was too frightened to take them out into the streets, but by now, the aroma was so familiar to Tyrion that he barely noticed it. He was more concerned as to what could have possibly induced Penny to leave the safety of the room (at least, safety compared with the rest of Meereen) right when she was supposed to stay out of sight. Typical, he thought. I should leave her to it. Yet somehow he was already turning and heading back, out the back door and into the cramped courtyard.

It was starting to get dark. Torches burned sullenly, but left vast pools of shadow between, and Tyrion couldn't help but glance over his shoulder for any stray Harpies. There were none. Looking up, he could just make out a small figure huddled atop the wallwalks, staring out to sea.

"Penny?" he shouted. "Gods be good, girl, get down from there."

She jumped and looked over her shoulder, saw him, and cringed. "Tyrion," she said nervously. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing? What are you doing? There's nothing out there but a bunch of bloody Volantenes on boats – and you can't see their tattoos from here, I tried. Now get down."

Penny continued to gaze out over the darkening water. "In a moment."

Tyrion sighed exasperatedly. "I don't care what you're doing," he ordered her. "I told you to get down. Otherwise you'll be meeting Oppo again sooner than you'd wish."

That was cruel, but it startled her enough to look around again. "What – what are you talking about? You said there wasn't anything but the Volantenes. . ."

"Right now, no. That makes no allowances for, say, two hours in the future. It's going to hot up in here tonight. Take it from me, I have an inside source. You don't come down, I'll tell Brown Ben to roast Pretty Pig and Crunch."

Penny looked aghast. "You wouldn't!"

"Watch me." Tyrion took a threatening step toward the hostel.

As he'd hoped, that brought her scampering down quick enough, so fast that she fell off the bottom of the ladder and scraped her hands and knees. Feeling vaguely guilty, he offered her a hand to her feet. "What were you doing, anyway?"

Penny's cheeks flushed. "I had a dream about my mother."

"Your mother? Does she live under the water?"

"No. She. . . I don't know where she lives. Or if she does." Penny's cheeks went deeper in color. "It was just. . . strong. Like she was calling out to me. I thought maybe if I went up and looked. . ."

Tyrion knew he should say something pithy, but it was deserting him at the moment. Penny was so bloody young, in more ways than one. Naught more than thirteen or fourteen. When I was thirteen, I married a whore. "Your mother?" he commented, trying to be pleasant. "You've never said much of her. You told me only that she had dark hair like you, and she sang to you sometimes."

"She did." Penny glanced away. It was clear that she was dying to go back up to her perch, and Tyrion grudgingly decided that as the first bell had not yet sounded, far less the second, they were in no immediate danger unless Ser Barristan lost all sense of time or the dragons took matters into their own hands. Huffing, he followed her back up the ladder. The hostel was built crookback against the city wall, meaning that they indeed possessed a splendid view of the blockaded harbor. Lanterns burned distantly on the Volantene ships, turned to wraiths in the advancing twilight.

"She loved us," Penny said after a moment, unexpectedly. "I know she did."

"What about your father? Bloody idiot, you don't care about her father. Ask her that, and you'll have to talk about yours.

"I never knew him. Mother didn't mention him." Penny pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. "She raised us, me and Oppo, until we were six, and then. . . I don't remember what happened exactly, but she said she had to go to Braavos, that she could make a better living there, that soon we wouldn't be so hungry and poor all the time. She said we'd stay with a neighbor until she came back, so she. . . she left. And the neighbor died a few months later, and we tried to get to Braavos, but we never made it there, and we fell in with a troupe of mummers. That was when we learned to joust."

"Until you were six," Tyrion repeated. "You and Oppo were twins?"

She looked surprised. "Yes. Why?"

"You never mentioned that."

"I. . . I'm sorry." Penny fiddled anxiously with the piece of hair. "I didn't. . . I thought I did, it's no matter now."

"You're right, it's no matter." Tyrion looked out to sea as well, which suddenly seemed preferable to meeting her eyes. They killed her brother because they thought he was me. He thought he'd escaped it, but the guilt still rose up to assail him periodically. Damned if I know why. It wasn't my fault.

Staring hard at the horizon, however, he thought he saw something strange. Shadows. Moving shadows. Ship-shaped shadows. Almost how another fleet might look if they were approaching with all lights doused and black sheets run up in place of ordinary sails. Almost how a fleet might look if they were attempting a stealth attack, and Tyrion frowned and leaned forward. Below him, the Volantenes appeared to have noticed nothing.

"What?" Penny asked, seeing his scrutiny.

"Nothing," Tyrion lied unconvincingly. "This night is destined to be eventful one way or the other. Which reminds me, we really should be getting down."

"I. . . suppose." Penny didn't move. "Do you. . . do you think Ser Jorah will come back with the queen?"

"I gravely doubt it. Valiant idiocy is all very well for poets. For spurned lovers, it works less well. Why?"

"Only. . . they're like the song, I thought. The Bear and the Maiden Fair. And I was thinking of my mother singing to me, and it seemed. . . important, somehow."

"I think of someone singing to me as well," Tyrion said. "All it means is that I must drink more, immediately."

Penny looked at him reproachfully. She does have beautiful eyes. "It was the song she always sang. It was from Myr, I think."

"Was your mother from Myr?"

"No. From Westeros. The westerlands. She was. . . poor. Nobody."

"My singer was from the westerlands as well." For no discernible reason, Tyrion's heart was starting to race. "And poor. Nobody. Dark-haired. What – " Gods, Lannister, don't ask, don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to – "what song?"

Penny paused. Then she slowly, shyly, hummed a few stanzas. And Tyrion Lannister felt everything he ever knew crumple up and fall onto his head like an anvil.

I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunlight in her hair.

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. Everything was falling away, he briefly wondered if he'd toppled off the parapet. It's not, it's not, he tried to tell himself, but every stunned, shaking particle of his body gave it the lie. Dragons seemed inconsequential, the Iron Throne even more so. Aegon and Daenerys and Targaryen and Lannister, Martell and Jaime and Cersei and Myrcella and Trystane and poor burned Quentyn, Ser Barristan's willingness to go ahead with the murder of Hizdahr zo Loraq – everything. All he could hear was the thunder of his blood in his ears.

Penny looked at him worriedly. "Tyrion? Tyrion? Tyrion, what's wrong?"

Somehow he was on his knees, though he did not remember falling. Then there was bile in his mouth, and everything he had eaten was coming up. He grasped at the merlons, and his hands almost slid off. Leap. Jump. Do it.

Tyrion did not trust himself to stand or speak. In fact, he was not sure that it would ever be in his power to do so again. And that was when the first explosion shredded the night.

Dragons, he thought madly, Ser Barristan forgot the signal. But it did not come from the direction of the Pyramid of Hazkar. It came from further out to sea, the darkness lit up by lurid streaks of flame. Red flame. The ghost ships were no ghosts. They were coming almost at ramming speed. Fifty or ninety or a hundred. Another explosion, and one of the Volantene ships disintegrated in a flying maelstrom of splinters, spilling dark shapes into the waves like rats. The howl of warhorns sundered the air.

Tyrion Lannister stared incoherently. He could taste the searing flame, could only think how much more of it would engulf Meereen tonight. His timing, it seemed, could not have been more diabolically perfect. This mystery fleet would attack on one side, the dragons on the other – the citizens would think the lot of it summoned up from the deepest of the seven hells, or whatever their Ghiscari equivalent was –

I loved a maid as red as bloodshed, with inferno in her hair.

And then, only then, as the fleet surged into the middle of the stunned Volantenes, he saw their banners. Gold kraken on black field. And understood. Greyjoys. Bloody, bloody Greyjoys.

Tyrion did nothing. He said nothing. He stood there like a lamb for the slaughter, rooted in place. Did not even duck as a mangonel above him started to launch with a whump and a thud, and the battle of Meereen began.