TYRION
Meereen's gate seemed grander when he last came. When he travelled in the company of that Yunkish master as one slave amongst many, the rising arches had loomed with an illusion grandeur. Now, as Tyrion peered at the twinning carvings of rearing lions, as the cracks in the stone shone crimson amidst the fading light, it seemed plainer, more prone with age and cracks. It was not the formidable arch that he had thought it then.
He had then thought it the same to the treacherous cliffs that flanked the gates of Casterly Rock where he had rode a thousand times in a life past. It had seemed as deadly as the pointed tips of steel and rock that jutted at any invader who dared to tread upon the lion's den.
Even as he gazed at the tips of Meereen's archers now set at him, he could only feel a slight amusement. It was not his home, and this is not his death.
The bright light of dusk dimmed the glory of the mighty gate, marking that of the men sitting steeds before it. Tyrion rode in company with the Lord of the New Ghiscari, a guest of honour to the queen's house.
Meereen's gate was smaller to his eyes this time he entered it, not as fearsome as it had been to the Yunkish master's dwarf.
Their shadows trailed behind them, tall and graceful amidst the shifting sands. Even his, where the dark shades hid the decrepit features. When Tyrion looked back, he thought his own the tallest of them all. It towered above Ser Jorah's, and all the New Ghiscari were as mice to him.
It was, until the valley smoothened, and the dwarf showed his true form.
He gazed again to the towering walls that displayed their cracks, and laughed.
Ser Jorah gazed at him, his eyes betraying naught but disgust.
"Lord Tyrion," he heard Ser Jorah rumble in a gruff voice,"This is not the queen's city. Last I came along these gates, these banners were not yet tattered and smoke did not rise from every shadow. This realm has ruined her."
"No," Tyrion tasted the sour tang of the air,"She is the daughter of the dragon, and where dragons dance, fire follows."
"A dragon plants no trees," he said," and a lion does not either ."
"But we are here to save this city," Tyrion said to the bear knight,"are we not?"
"With all these fine men," he swept his arm in a half circle to the golden horsemen surrounding them,"we shall make her a gift of a glorious Meereen."
"When the shadows of the dwarves grow the tallest," he laughed inside,"the world has lost its face. Yet there are still much that remains the same. Conquerors level cities, and monsters aid them."
"This monster only wishes for some small gifts for his service. Would this conqueror," Tyrion wondered,"have as capable a hand to deal it?"
He looked to the smoke-strewn beaches, and dragons soaring in the sky, and he was satisfied with the answer.
Ser Jorah gave him a threatening glare, then growled as low as the sigil on his house's banner,"what you are scheming in that wastrel of your head, but let this be known. If you mean any ill to the queen or tarry her way, I'll make a gift of a Lannister's head to Her Grace. I'll rid myself of putrid snarks, as I should have done moons ago in Volantis."
" He did not insult my nose ," Tyrion smirked," That is quite an endearment to be cherished ." It might even win him Tyrion's good graces if Tyrion had not distaste for every other word he spoke.
He would have great need of that in due time. Foolishly loyal to a fault to a queen that would never want him. Still, it was Tyrion who wished to offer his own service to the queen. He was to offer a stunted gargoyle named Lannister, so who was Tyrion to judge.
"It is a fool ," he knew also,"who thinks he can bring the queen's peace. The New Ghiscari are not his friends, no more are they the friends as the Yunkish who they abandoned so eagerly to dragonflame at that battle."
They are honest masters, at the very least, and show the only friend they have on their glimmering banners. It shines so true, and so bright, so that all may know of their yearning and bond. Tyrion knew that there were viler merchants to deal with.
If there were any that could be capable of bringing this ruin of a city to peace, Tyrion guessed it to be that Prince the New Ghiscari spoke so frequently of.
Someone had made certain that Meereen descended into war, where the powers that held the armies would blame who they hated. Ser Barristan and the Yunkish had been puppets in this mummer's show. Perhaps the Ironborn as well, and the dragon that had claimed their souls.
Someone had made certain that the peace became a field of ash, when bones tired of fruitless slaughter. When he rises with his strength in the city, he would be greeted by all those, both master and freeman, who wish for peace. When he casts aside the embattled powers that brought it suffering, he would be welcomed as the realm's saviour.
Tyrion would not be vexed if this man had found a way to tame dragons, as the fires of Rhaegal were not that of a wild beast. He would very possibly have mastered the beast, but forged a wiser path than the dragon queen on how to use them, and emerge with the people's love for his might.
It reeked of a plan worthy of Lord Tywin.
"No," he decided. His father could never win his people's love. Perhaps a wiser Young Wolf, or Renly if fortune had turned his way.
"Friends," Tyrion heard a New Ghiscari say. This man had a thin face, a sharp nose, and a pointed beard beneath his chin. His shallow gray eyes bore into him,"I beg your lordships earnestly to put aside your quarrel. Meereen has made its welcome."
"Dragons or no,"he gripped his rein,"Dragontamers are men all the same, and easier to slay." This Prince may prove a useful friend, or perhaps his most dangerous foe.
But Tyrion remembered that song,"Should he prove too troublesome, the rains shall weep o'er his halls."
Tyrion turned his head to the gates, seeing the mighty palisades come to life with a booming creak. The skies shone behind it, above the dim forms of crusted houses and dark streets.
Men began to emerge from the shadows, dragon men bearing dragon banners. A void of blood, the woven wyrms raised themselves in glory amidst the dying light of dusk. The riders fanned before them in a long row of streaked coursers, mail glinting and mounts baying. Each stern horseman had the same grim face beneath the shadow of his helm. Their spears glimmered golden upon their serrated points and tall shafts.
The steeds of the New Ghiscari whinnied in anxiousness and Tyrion felt his own sway and shake. Hushed muttering among his companions broke out, a splatter of whispers that grew into a storm.
After the horsemen formed their positions, a giant of a man upon an equally large mount rode through the gate. He was built as a boulder, and a heavy warhammer was slung across his scalp was bald, and beady black eyes peered at them in a stony glare. The softly tanned skin about his face hung limp from harrowed bones, as if he had not slept in days. His lips curled into a twisted smirk that did not meet his eyes.
The man spurned his lumberous steed forward to greet his noble guests, the clatter of its hooves the only distinct tune from the silent waste that grasped Tyrion's company. He approached the Lord Commander of the New Ghiscari, the blinding sun at his back casting his form into a blurred silhouette. Coming before the Lord Commander's great stallion, his looming shadow blanketed the old man's torso.
"My lord,"this captain of the Meereenese boomed in greeting,"Meereen bids its warmest welcome."
As Tyrion saw him clearly, he noted that the dark shadows under this captain's chin were not a beard as he had mistaken, but shallow stubble at best.
Tyrion also saw a lavishly robed man sitting astride the captain, giving a welcoming nod,"Our masters await the honour of your presence."
"I give my sincerest thanks to your hospitality to the Great Masters on the behalf of all the Noble Masters of Meereen," the Lord Commander answered.
He seemed to think a moment, and asked,"How does the city fare?
It was the finely robed Meereen who replied,"With our greatest efforts, with much humble thanks owed to the Prince, peace and order has prevailed, but many concerns still persist. The war is not yet over."
"This is no place," the burly Meereenese captain interjected,"to discuss great matters. They can be addressed more capably on the council, this war and all the other remaining troubles."
" Their war. The war of the slavers ." Tyrion glanced sidelong at what little remained after the battle, the last of the queen's conquering force of eunuchs and sellswords.
It's a pity that they would assuredly be slain the instant they march into their city's gates. If this Prince means to be seen as the saviour against the warmongers, he would certainly be loath to leave them alive. Tyrion wagered that those men were already named traitors in the high courts.
It would have been a fine opportunity to gain the loyalty of those queen's men should he have had the opportunity, yet Tyrion had to make do with what he had. He had to meet this Prince, and see who he truly is. Tyrion would rather not a thousand swords than not knowing the man he was to face. Though that steel would still be quite useful, if Tyrion were to win Ser Barristan or some other senior commander's trust.
He thought of this Prince's father, Prince Doran who ruled Dorne. Tyrion knew naught of him save the little courtesies in his letters. It had been too little, and he was unsure if all men take after their fathers. Not all men were as Tyrion.
Tyrion saw the Lord Commander nod to the Meereenese,"Then lead the way."
The streets were awash in filth and foul smells as their hosts forged their path into the city. Against the shining gold of the Pyramids and sky, smoke and ruin emerged before their eyes.
It was the scent that came first, a brazen stench straight from the deepest pits of the Seven Hells. There was no masking it, for it passed through the walls to greet their nostrils before they even entered the gate. It reeked of both a slaughterhouse and a privy, shit mixed with blood and the overwhelming waft of filth that could only have come from a field of rotting corpses and burning bones after aglorious battle.
What came unto their eyes did not prove the smells a farce. The dim brown cobbles of the streets boasted naught but cracked stone, smashed wreckage, and starving beggars. The prosperity of the queen's wedding did not reach them, but war had all the same. Tyrion could not tell the living from the caracasses, for they all smelled like corpses. The skin under all the sores and pus were a lifeless and ghostly white. None had eaten in days, thin hallowed skin hanging off feeble bones.
"Where do whores go? Truly, to Meereen? " All the blood and filth and princes seemed to converge on this bright miserable city, so why not a whore? It was certainly a place equal to King's Landing's splendid and reeking halls.
His gaze lingered on a lone woman wandering amidst the barrenhusks of other men. When she met his gaze her eyes were bloodshot, and dark haggard bags hung beneath them. Her sunken cheeks were streaked with dirt, splotches of mud matting the frenzied locks of her hair. She had no shoes, and her bare feet were consumed with black blotches of blood. To his horror, Tyrion realized that she was no older than twenty, though her wrinkles made her look thrice that age. She huddled a thinly wrapped bundle to her tattered skirt as she broke their stare and wandered away. Tyrion froze, his eyes fixed to where she was. He knew those eyes, knew the same frightened look that haunted his dreams a thousand times over.
" Where do whores go?" Tyrion wondered, and thought he heard a babe's cry.
The Great Pyramid rose tall in its glory, seizing his gaze, and the streets faded into shadow.
It was night when they approached its smooth slopes. The New Ghiscari had worried of the pale mare, and Tyrion had also, but their company of horsemen cleared their path, themselves many yards away.
It would be an amusing jape if the gods would bring him so far only to take him at the cusp of meeting his queen.
" Though that was unlike to happen even if I survive ,," he sniffed the spiralling smoke," I came here for dragons, and found only ash ."
But ash were the leavings of such beasts, so he should not have been so surprised. Those were the making of a reign of fire and blood.
His eyes wandered to the last beast in the city, a sprawling monster with scales of pearl. It made its roost on a distant Pyramid, a spot of silver amidst all the dim yellows.
"The last beauty of Valyria,and its last horror." Meereen had tasted of both.
The Great Pyramid towered above their diminutive forms, the mark of a powerful king.
They were greeted at the entrance by a wispy man in flowing brown , he wore what Tyrion only expected to see in the Seven Kingdoms. Heavy links formed a chain that hung about his neck, complete with gold, copper, lead, and half a dozen other metals.
"One of the Prince's Men," Tyrion reasoned,"the maester he brought from Westeros."
Stablehands took their steeds as the New Ghiscari emissaries dismounted and ascended the imposing steps to arrive at the terrace before the Pyramid's entrance. High columns of marble pillar held a glamorously carved marble roof above them.
"Noble Masters of New Ghis," the maester declared,"The council is honoured of your coming."
The Lord Commander gave a stiff nod,"We are honoured to be guests at your hearth."
The maester smiled, moving aside and sweeping his pale hand towards the entrance,"The council awaits."
They entered the mouth of the Pyramid, and torchlit halls swallowed them. Guards eyed them at every pillar, men of all colours of cloaks, gold and white and blue.
At the end of a hall, after passing a flight of stairs under a winged arch near an entrance beyond which Tyrion could see a grand atrium, the maester raised his hand.
"Are you certain," the maester asked, and Tyrion thought his eyes on the dwarf,"that all your men are trusted? These are matters worthy of only the highest of authority."
The Lord Commander eyed Tyrion and Ser Jorah,"They are, but I shall still require them, and I hope that you can grant them comfortable lodgings."
"If it is your will," the maester said,"Master Archibald, please show these guests to quarters that will be to their liking."
The bald captain who had led them to the Pyramid swept his beady eyes to them,"My lords, if you would follow me."
Tyrion followed the master despite his misgivings, tendrils of growing worry in his mind, but he knew that his time with the New Ghiscari had not ended.
" They need me ," his steps echoed in the hollow hall," else there will be none to advise him on this Prince ."
"Though why would he still trust me in this Prince's hands ," He turned to watch the New Ghiscari disappear into a brightly lit doorway, a radiance beyond his sight," trusting his man into the hands of a man he does not trust?"
" Or does he?" Though Tyrion would just need to meet this Prince, and he would wait and see.
He glanced at the stone spires that formed the flanks of the hall in which he walked down, his own sauntering shadow dancing upon them.
His eyes lost the trail of his own amongst the wavering torchlight, as darkness of all his companions drowned his own in their midst. In the light of the Pyramid's glory, his was too small to be seen.
Their quarters were much fairer than the pens he had grown accustomed to in the last moon. It was largely empty and sparse save for several beds, a table with chairs of carved sedar, and a half-full bookshelf. A balcony hung from the chamber, jutting into the endless sky and overlooking a city of glory and ruin.
Their escort departed as soon as they settled, leaving two burly guards bearing striped cloaks of blue and white to make certain that they did not flee.
Tyrion had attempted to ask this Archibald of his duty in Meereen, but received no answer for all his effort. He let the other question linger unsaid, the question about that Prince.
He had himself reclining on his featherbed, relishing in the soft cushions that he had forsaken for so very long. Tyrion was in no mood for sleep, though as a thousand matters plagued his mind. Each was more worrisome than the last, yet all he could do was wait.
" Could it be ," he wondered in the ever-darkening evening, with none coming to summon them" That the New Ghiscari masters plotted with this Prince to bring me here and have me killed? Is that the reason for the silence, to be broken only by the scraping of knives?" They could then use his head, a Lannister's head, to appease the dragon queen in her vengeance against his house.
Tyrion had not been shy to give his true name, and he wondered if it were unwise.
Ser Jorah was as wordless as ever, so Tyrion did not even attempt to speak his worries to him.
Lying alone atop the bed, he felt as though lacking in something, a hole in his comfort that would never be sated by the soft pillows.
A serving girl had come a short while after nightfall, asking what her master's guests wished for food and drink.
Under the gentle torchlight, Tyrion saw that she was pretty, with a willowy body and breasts the size of plums. She had a heart-shaped face, and hazel eyes that spelled the same warmth. Silky black locks framed her bright cheeks, cascading beneath chin and curling under her full smiling lips. Tyrion wanted her, but Ser Jorah told her of what they wanted and sent her off before Tyrion could rise from his bed.
"She would not love the dwarf anyway,"he sighed and consoled himself after the loss of that opportunity, watching the hems of her skirt disappear around a corner. No one had loved him, other than her.
"Your first whore," his father's voice spilled across his mind as he lay down.
"A whore," he stared emptily at the ceiling. A whore that he did not deserve.
"Where do whores go?" Where could the monster find his love? Would he need to tear down his realm, burn his home and House to ashes, win the gold and vengeance of all of the Seven Kingdoms to repay her pain and prove himself worthy? Would he find her then?
Her name lingered on his lips, but he had not the strength to speak it.
He did not remember the maid coming back, and only scarcely the taste of the food. They brought him mulled wine, and he was glad for it to calm his mind.
Laying on his featherbed, his eyelids grew drowsy until a troubled sleep took him.
Tyrion dreamed of darkness, until a horn woke him.
He opened his eyes to a greybeard warrior standing above his bed.
"They have come to kill me," Tyrion thought, his mind clouded by sleep. He looked beyond the the warrior, and saw no one else,"Why would they send one man, even for the puny wretched dwarf?"
In the corner of his eye, Tyrion saw Ser Jorah standing ready, armed and armoured. The bear knight gave their visitor a stiff nod,"Lord Tyrion. This is the Tattered Prince, the commander of the Windblown.
"What business does a sellsword have with me?" Tyrion pondered,"I seem to not be the man he wishes to kill, nor am I his contractor."
Thinking of the latter, he smiled,"But I could be."
It was not the Prince he had wanted to meet, but he would make do.
Though these were Windblown, and their loyalties blow wherever the wind falls. Their banners had already swayed once, and the Yunkish had tasted of that treachery.
"Most amusingly," Tyrion thought of the tales he heard of the tumbling death of the Drunken Conqueror.
The Drunken Conqueror's killer stood before him, his dark eyes wrought with mystery and contempt. Though his cloak bore the tattered patchwork of a dozen colours, his silver armour shimmered as radiant as the brightest star.
His narrow lips pursed at Tyrion,"Lord Lannister. May I speak with you privily?"
Tyion glanced at Ser Jorah, whose stony face was empty and stoic.
"Certainly," Tyrion answered, slipping from his bed and pulling on his books,"Where would you think it best to discuss this… private matter, my lord?"
The sellsword turned to the balcony,"The wind is strong this hour of the night."
A chill, as stark as ice, took hold of his spine, and he felt the breeze of the Meereenese night. The roaring hearth had forbade most of the cold, but those sullen winds broke the hardened shield of flame and became the victor in the chamber in the end.
"Wind," he japed,"fit for those named Windblown. How did you come by this name?"
He did not expect an answer, and was surprised when the sellsword gave one.
"It was a time when I lost my life, when all I was became a lie. 'Where will you go?' a man had asked me then, with eyes as grey as the snowy sky. 'I do not know,' I had answered,'Wherever the wind blows.'"
"And it blew me here," he finished.
" A fascinating story ," Tyrion thought," that tells little to nothing ."
Something about the man's face seemed odd, as the wilted stench of spoiled milk amongst those fresh. It seemed plain at first glance, but as his senses drew closer, he spied as if by a trick of the light, a face beneath the beard that was smooth as starglass. There were wrinkles, of course, but they were not as numerous as the grey beard made it seem. This man may not be as old as he seemed.
There was something irregular about the beard as well, an observation that he could not quite place clearly.
Tyrion gave a gesture at the balcony,"After you, my lord."
The night was pleasant enough in the company of the moonlight gusts. He gripped the cool rail, taking in a city of darkness. Several spots of flame glimmered beneath the sky. The light of the torches on the balcony gave them enough to see one another, but little else. Ser Jorah stayed behind in the shadows of the chamber, and they were alone under the stars.
It was sombre and quiet, as if the night knew to mourn the blood that was shed in the day.
"Or to act as a guise for more knives," He was not so much a fool to believe that the slaying shall fade when the battle ended.
The largest of the fires were that by the south gate.
The Tattered Prince saw where his gaze lingered, and he pointed at that light,"The queen's return. The eunuchs and sellswords and all those freedmen who were willing to die for the queen. Perhaps the only true queen's men, returning after their victory. Their coming was the horn you heard."
His cloak billowed in the wind, and all its satins faded to white under the starlight.
"Are there truly not any men in the city who are Her Grace's leal men," Tyrion turned to him,"I had thought this Prince I heard to be true to her rule. I had been glad to hear that tiding, so that Her Grace's reign is safe in her absence. Is that not true?"
"He is loyal to Her Grace, that much I know," the Tattered Prince replied,"though he had not been honest with me in all our dealings. He sent first a mummer in his place, a square-jawed boy who was too plain to be the Prince of Dorne. I sent him off with a tale of the Prince of Pentos, until he himself decided to bequeath his majesty unto my camp, dealing with me in terms of respect. When I looked upon him, I saw that he looked just as Prince Oberyn had in his youth, and I knew that he was truthfully Prince Doran's son. He takes certain cares, but the queen is duty, and he is true."
"I have come a long path," Tyrion said,"from the Seven Kingdoms to serve Her Grace. To aid her in ruling her realm, pledging my loyalty to her battles, and I am glad to have found friends. We would be many a boon in her service."
"There are many men in Meereen that wish her ill," the Tattered Prince replied,"But it seems that we have come to an accord. Truthfully, this meeting was me seeking your purpose. And I know now that we have a common cause, so we might be friends in this struggle. We are both true to the queen's reign."
"True to her gold, you mean, and the Dornish Prince that gave it to you," Tyrion smiled,"True to her reign, and loyal to Her Grace. We are both here to serve the dragon queen. Let us hope that we may serve her realm ably, and fashion her a prosperous realm in all the days to come. We are true dragon men, to follow the flames of the last."
"Shall we vow to the last dragon?" Tyrion swept a hand towards the east.
" Not so much the last ," he thought of the boy on the Shy Maid .
"Words are wind, Lord Lannister" the Tattered Prince replied,"but they carry the weight of true men. Of men like you and me."
"To the last dragon," he echoed to the east.
They watched silently the lights that were the queen's host creepy further into the city, illuminating a path into the streets of shadow.
After a moment, the Tattered Prince spoke,"The last dragon. Yet who can truly say that she is the last? There are always dragons here and there, hidden or seen, that it is a momentous folly to believe in the flames of one."
"Do you know of Daeron the Daring?" he asked.
Tyrion did," A Prince of the Green faction during the Dance of the Dragons."
"How would a sellsword from the east know?" he wondered. Even Tyrion only knew his name from the margins of the pages, a minor mention of the maester's quill that wrote the history of the dragon kings.
"The least remembered of all the dragon princes in the Dance," the Tattered Prince said,"yet he could have been king. When King's Landing fell to his foe Rhaenyra, his elder brother the second Aegon had vanished from the face of the Seven Kingdoms and was presumed dead. Aegon's children were lost also to the Greens. There were tales of the whereabouts of Princess Jaehaera, that she was held captive by Rhaenyra, that she escaped the city at its fall, but none true enough to declare for her, and Prince Maelor was torn apart by a mob at Bitterbridge. Daeron's other elder brother Aemond had died already at the God's Eye. Prince Daeron was the last heir of Aegon, the Second of His Name. Half a boy still, but grown enough at sixteen years of age to be a capable king in the eyes of all his lords. Prince Daeron had led a host at the time of King's Landing's fall, and his men had wanted to crown him, then and there at his war camp, to continue the war for the Iron Throne."
"Yet Prince Daeron died at Tumbleton, when Ser Addam Velaryon and his dragon Seasmoke descended unknowingly on Prince Daeron's camp during a night of fire and steel. Besides, was it not the Two Betrayers who wished to crown Prince Daeron, and the prince threw wine in their face."
"When Prince Daeron denied them, Hugh Hammer, the bolder of the two, wished to crown himself. The Caltrops that formed against the Two Betrayers had not only in mind to slay the two ambitious bastards, but also to crown Prince Daeron after. They took it that Prince Daeron wished them to rid him of treacherous men who would otherwise be his Kingmakers, so that the prince may rule with ease once he were truly crowned as king. They were greatly mistaken. Prince Daeron wanted the men dead, that was true, but he wanted nothing of kingship."
"Why?"
"Because he was tired. Tired of the bloodshed that ripped apart. Tired of burning fields, and agonizing screams. Tired of the endless march, and the rotting stench of all the corpses. Tired of the schemes that brought a grisly fate on his friends and his brothers and so many others. Tired of the follies that led them to such ruin, follies that were again being made. The idea of kingship disgusted him, but he knew that each day he lived, the war would rage another day. He knew that, for the Caltrops confided that plan to him when they asked his leave to slay the Two Betrayers."
"When the Caltrops told him of their plan to crown him, it was the final straw on the mule's back. He knew that each day he lived, some man would think to press his claim to the Iron Throne. So he had to appear dead to all the eyes in the Targaryen kingdoms. And he was. Slain in the Battle of Tumbleton when the fires of Ser Addam washed over their tents. His dragon the riderless Tessarion joined the battle against Seasmoke, and was slain the same night. He wanted no songs sung of how he died, so none would remember him. Who would remember a prince who died so unremarkably when a burning tent fell on him? There are much worthier princes to remember, such as Prince Daemon and Prince Aemond, who fell during a dance of dragons. Prince Daeron judged that with him dead, the last claimant of the Greens who had the strength to challenge their foes was gone, and the war would soon end. The attack of Ser Addam provided just the opportunity. Prince Daeron did not know of the attack then, but it would make a more suitable tale than a prince disappearing in the dead of the night."
"His body was never found,"the Tattered Prince said,"and the truth of how he died is not known. Some say a warrior named Black Trombo cut him down, others his burning tent collapsing on him. The truth is no one knows, for they never found his corpse."
"Are you saying that Prince Daeron lived?"
"As for himself, he did not wish to die. He fled his camp at Tumbleton under the cover of night hours before Seasmoke's attack. Only three trusted guards accompanied the Prince as they fled his crown. Prince Daeron knew that while in the lands ruled by the Targaryens, he would never truly be safe from the schemes. They were desperate, so they rode to the only place in Westeros where the power of the dragons had not cast itself yet."
"Dorne, before the second Daeron," Tyrion said, and the Tattered Prince nodded,"They knew better than to chance the Boneway into Dorne, however, and seek passage from the Vulture King, so they rode further west and entered the kingdom through the Prince's Pass. Fortune shielded their journey in the Reach, and Daeron knew the land well from his frequent scouting ventures riding on Tessarion. They entered Dorne without incident, and the prince fashioned himself a new name and dyed that famed hair. He took refuge at Starfall as a minor hedge knight with a small following, but eventually rose to wed the Lady Dayne who ruled the castle."
"And the Martells just let this dragon prince settle in their lands?" Tyrion wondered.
"They knew, but they considered the value of a Targaryen prince should the Iron Throne seek to invade Dorne again."
"Prince Daeron's heirs with Lady Dayne," the Tattered Prince continued,"became the Daynes of Starfall in all the days to come. No man in the lands of the Targaryens saw the prince again, and he was glad to be known as having died at Tumbleton. The Daynes that rule Starfall this day are said to look so much like the dragonlords of Valyria, and it is because they had blood of the dragon in their veins. The blood of Daeron the Daring, the last dragon of the Greens, the dragon they thought dead."
" Daeron did not know that the second Aegon still lived when he made his farce of a death ," he tightened his grip on the hard rail that warmed through the long grip of his hands," It was Aegon the Third of His Name that emerge the victor after months more of bloodshed ."
The Tattered Prince turned to him, and smiled,"Do not be so certain of the last dragon, Lord Lannister. Who can say if there might be others?"
"Of course," Tyrion figured,"You know of that boy, that Aegon who they said to be Prince Rhaegar's son. You have been plotting with the Cheesemonger and perhaps even that eunuch to set him on the Iron Throne, and you had been waiting for him as he had sought to make his way to Meereen. It's a pity that he was swayed from his journey to the dragon queen to fight a hopeless battle in the Seven Kingdoms. The hope lies only now in the Mother of Dragons, and me."
An urge came upon Tyrion,"Have you come at the behest of the Cheesemonger?"
The Tattered Prince stared at him,"Have you?"
"I have been sent,"Tyrion answered,"only to serve the queen."
"Seven hells," Tyrion thought,"Does he have fingers everywhere?" If that fat oaf did, then the Spider himself would not lack for spies in these shadows. An icy hand gripped his tongue, and he felt the eunuch's ears lurking in every spot beyond his sight. Perhaps some were listening to their very words. Perhaps Meereen was already in their hands.
Thinking back upon the Tattered Prince's words, an absurd notion blossomed in his mind.
" Impossible ," he told himself, but what deemed it false had been only one man's word, no matter how honest that man was said to be.
" All men lie ," Tyrion knew, and he would find the truth.
"I've never known Queen Daenerys before," he said," but I dearly wish that she would be like her brother should the tales I heard of him be true. I've never heard much of Daeron the Daring, but I've beheld one Targaryen prince in my life. Prince Rhaegar, who was said to be a great man."
"He was a great fool,"the Tattered Prince scoffed. That was unexpected, but Tyrion continued anyway.
"Is it truly so?" he asked,"I had heard from many that he was handsome and kind, noble and valiant, a promising heir to the Seven Kingdoms. He was the capable prince who everyone wished to sit the Iton Throne as their king. I wonder what consumed his mind to kidnap and rape the Stark girl?"
"Madness, and stupidity," the Tattered Prince replied, his words bitter with long-wrought steel,"Worshiping words whose writer died centuries before. Believing himself to be a hero that he was not. He was as mad as his father, perhaps worse. Yet that was not what every lord and lady in the realm saw. They saw a silver prince who toyed with harpstrings and sang beautiful songs to swooning maidens. They saw a gallant warrior who could best even the greatest knights of the realm. They saw a great man who would lead the Seven Kingdoms into bright years. They never saw the madman beneath who would spur the Seven Kingdoms into wrath and ruin. Only his closest men knew, who tried in vain to sway his will. And that Stark girl, even viler a seductress, to bewitch his passion and lead him and the realm into the bloodiest of wars. Rhaegar was perhaps a good man once. Yet he became madder than any other Targaryen had ever been, so much to throw all his duty to the fires. Every tale that praises him is false, and he would never make a good king."
That confirmed Tyrion's notion, and he smiled.
They say that the Windblown had been found thirty years ago by this very prince. Perhaps that fact about the company was true, but his man who was the Tattered Prince now was the Tattered Prince at its founding. He could not have led the company for more than seventeen years. He perhaps slew the Tattered Prince that found the company and donned his cloak. The company would not know, for Tyrion remembered men say that the Tattered Prince could become a common man without his cloak. Likewise, a common man could become him by wearing it.
A cloak of all colours, to misguide the men looking for white.
"And the six founders that this Tattered Prince now speaks of," Tyrion reasoned,"There should have been seven, but the seventh was false .
"The legends tell it all wrong," Tyrion thought of the stories he had heard of the man all his life, of this knight's glory and valour and honour.
Tyrion looked at the man now, starlight twinkling on his brow. It showed his sallow skin to its truth, twenty years younger than it had seemed. His hair was not the grey that it had looked, an illusion set by dirt, dust, and matted clumps. The gleaming strands shone its forgotten silver and shadowed gold.
"The knight of the sun," Tyrion had known for so long that he could never have met him,"The knight of the stars."
A horn sounded in the distance amidst the sea of flames. The returning armies had entered in full force at the South Gate. A hold suddenly seized the march of those queen's men, and the torches halted. Silence grew, and the fires began to flicker out. A bitter wind carrying a taste of blood landed on Tyrion's tongue, and he swallowed. The lights died, and darkness drew itself upon Meereen.
"A woe to the true," his companion said. Shock fell on Tyrion's mind, though he had known its inevitable coming, much as winter.
"But winter does not touch these lands, and blood does in its stead."
"A woe to our realm," Tyrion whispered.
The knight beside him raised his eyes to the forlorn, and through those last words, Tyrion knew that his guess had been true. He sighed,"The night is lightless, yet it is always darkest before the dawn."