Tyrion
"Mercy! Your Grace! Please! Mercy! Mercy! Please have mercy, Mother of Dragons! Mercy! We will do anything for you! I never wanted to be here! We are yours to command! Please, Your Grace! Mercy!"
The remaining pirates are lined up aboard the last ship in Victarion's fleet still afloat while the rest all burn and sink into the smoking sea around them. Drogon hovers over them all, flapping his mighty wings as Daenerys listens to their pleas aboard his back. Tyrion is behind her, having watched from above as the dragons wrought havoc upon Victarion's army with ease. Now he is watching the pirates below. There are a hundred or so in all. Their screams mix together in a desperate orchestra of pleas for mercy.
"We could use them to invade King's Landing as fodder." Tyrion says in Dany's ear, "However that would mean trusting them not to rape and plunder… They will be a problem in the end... and we can't let them go. If even one of them manages to get the word out to Cersei that we're coming then we will lose our element of surprise."
"Then I will not spare them." Dany says, and before he can argue, Tyrion notices that there is a fire in her eyes as she cries, "Dracarys!"
When it's over and the last scream dies, Daenerys flies them back to The Red Wind and the rest of her fleet, entirely untouched by the enemy. They are met with a swell of cheers as Drogon lands aboard her flagship and roars with triumph, the other two dragons circling above them and breathing fire into the sky. Tyrion carefully slides off the black beast's spine, landing on all fours rougher than he would've liked beside its hind leg. Greyworm helps him up while Daenerys dismounts gracefully, bidding Drogon farewell before he rocks the ship and takes flight again.
"Your Grace, that was spectacular. An astonishingly swift victory!" Varys sings, rushing in to praise her. "Truly, I have never seen such—"
"Thank you, Lord Varys." Daenerys interrupts him, slipping past him and Tyrion over to where Jorah Mormont stands, nearly naked except for his singed small-clothes. His infected arm still gives Tyrion pause whenever he notices it, and he nearly shouts to Dany when she takes his blackened hand in her own. "Does it hurt?"
"Not at all." He softly tells her, "It feels… strange."
"Come with me. Now." She commands him, and guides him down into her cabin. Tyrion watches them leave with a frown, noticing Jorah's eager smile before they disappear.
"It appears war has given our Queen a lust for other needs." Varys comments with a sigh, "Understandable really. Though I never would've thought to see Jorah the Andal alive again."
"She shouldn't be doing that. We went through this already with Daario." Tyrion says grumpily.
"Is your concern a political one or a personal one?" Varys asks in his sing-song voice.
"I don't like what you're implying." Tyrion growls, "If she's going to be Queen of Westeros, she can't have a paramour, or the people will not take her seriously."
"They will take her dragons seriously, and perhaps that is enough. Kings have had many mistresses in the past. Why should this one be any different?"
"A Queen is not a King. Women are judged differently from men." Tyrion says and Varys casts him a look. "What? It's not right but that doesn't make it untrue. The people will mock her, and when the time comes to be married—"
"Plenty of suitors will line up, I'm sure. Your worry for our Queen might be more misplaced then you realize, my friend."
"I just watched her burn thousands of men alive without batting an eye. I have a right to be worried."
"She is not the Mad King."
"But she is his daughter. You know what they say about Targaryens."
"I would be more worried about Jorah Mormont, if I were you." Varys turns around to glare at The Red Woman across the deck. She is watching the burning ships sink into the water with a composed expression. Tyrion remembers Varys' feud with her from before but cannot stop his friend from calling out to her in time, "What magic did you use to cure his arm, dare I ask? Or are the Lord of Light's secrets unworthy of me?"
Kinvara faces them with a smile, and Tyrion feels the same uneasiness he felt when they first crossed paths in Meereen. "It was not magic that cured his greyscale, only the Lord of Light's will." She tells them.
"Call it what you will, shooting fire out of your hands is magic, the kind you hear about in children's stories and old tales from thousands of years ago," Varys says, raising his head with confidence. He seems determined not to be browbeaten by her again. "So how did you do it? Please, I'm dying to know. Is it even truly cured or will he wake up tomorrow morning insane from infection? Enlighten me, dear."
"It's very simple." She says, "To give a man the Lord of Light's gift, you must know their body and soul. Some use blood, some use prayer, and some use sex. The act of sex lets a man and a woman know each other more than they know themselves, and with the Lord's power I replaced the disease with a different kind of disease, you could call it; because like a disease, fire spreads."
Tyrion listens with a skeptical ear, not believing half of it. "If sex could cure ailments then by all means, My Lady, fuck me until I'm not a dwarf."
Kinvara giggles, to his surprise. "It doesn't work like that, I'm afraid. Though the offer is… tempting." Tempting, is it? Tyrion doubts he has the balls to go to bed with such an intimidating woman; though he has to admit, she is beautiful… yet something about her rubs him the wrong way. She says, "The Lord chose Jorah Mormont to be his champion. I witnessed him myself in the flames, fighting in King's Landing—I only obeyed My Lord's will."
"Such magic comes at a cost. It always does." Varys tells her sourly.
"You're right, Lord Varys." Kinvara says, her smile unflinching, "He paid his arm for it."
"What else?" Tyrion persists. "There's always more with you sorceresses."
The High Priestess looks again to the burning ships in the ocean, the fire's dance reflecting in her eyes, and says, "Jorah owes The Lord a debt for his life, and only death can pay for life."
Such vague riddles might intrigue him on a different day, but Tyrion is exhausted and sick—the after-effects of drinking so much beginning to kick in. He bids them both farewell before retiring into his cabin beneath The Red Wind.
After relieving his need to vomit out his window, Tyrion wipes his beard off with the sleeve of his golden tunic, then takes a goblet and fills it with as much wine as it'll carry. His room is right beside his Queen's… and their ship—as big as it was—is not a castle… He takes a seat on his bed, closing his eyes, drinking his wine, trying to block out Dany's muffled moans of pleasure on the other side of his wall. It's just like the other night when she had Yara visit…Or are her moans a little louder this time? His goblet is empty, so he pours himself another, gulping it down as loud as he can. Just get drunk… Just get drunk…
Tyrion relaxes against his bedspread, unable to stop himself from listening. Dany's body… so young, so beautiful… riding that hairy, beast of a man, Jorah Mormont, and his strange, black, cracked arm… A mixture of disgust and arousal gives Tyrion an unpleasant erection. Not like last time. Last time I could hear both her and Yara. Two girls moaning… that was a good night… Gave me plenty to keep my mind busy, and my hand… But it feels wrong now… Something isn't right with Jorah. Never mind that he's older than I am, it's his arm… How could any woman want something so hideous touching them?
The irony of that thought, and the wine going to his head, cracks a chuckle from between Tyrion's lips. How could any woman want something so hideous like me? Plenty have touched me, pleased me, and pretended to love me, even… But none have ever truly loved me. Perhaps I am being too judgmental. I should be happy for Jorah—he's been in love with Daenerys for a lot longer than I've known her. She appears to love him now as well. He might not be suitable for marriage—but I did tell her to enjoy herself while she has the opportunity to do so out here on the sea… I should take my own advice and stop worrying or I'll grow as bald as Varys.
With that in mind, Tyrion lowers the goblet down on the desk beside him and unbuckles his pants. Sliding them down his legs, he wraps his hand around his cock and closes his eyes. He listens to Dany's moans and imagines that he's the one inflicting her ecstasy. Up and down, his hand slides along his erection. He sees himself climbing down between her legs and tasting her. Somehow, he just knows she has one that doesn't smell of yeast or fish, like so many Tyrion's tasted in his past-life at brothels. A Queen, Tyrion had never tasted, yet he can imagine Dany's scent and the look on her face when she climaxes against his tongue and within seconds Tyrion is already writhing with a pained expression; blanketing his gushing member with the closest thing he can reach—the bottom of his golden shirt.
Dany's moans in reality go on and on while Tyrion groans and struggles to take his shirt off without wiping his own seed across his belly, chest, and face. Red-faced and drunk, Tyrion throws his clothing on the floor, turns over in his bed, and passes out.
