The captain was not one to dispute the order to get underway coming from a man of princely birth. Tyrion watched Ser Daemon escort Ellaria Sand into the cabin she and Oberyn would share, wondering mildly if he'd spend the voyage falling asleep (and waking up) to the sounds of the viper tumbling his paramour. Not that I've ever made a woman squeal with delight except with my coin purse. It was then that he remembered Shae, and all the quaint indifference to leaving broke into an intense longing for the girl.
"You're thinking with your cock, which means you're half as useful as you normally are." Bronn said, leaning against the deck rail. "Without any blood in your ugly head your wits are good for nothing, which means you're good for nothing."
"I'll have you know each head is ugly as the other." Tyrion replied.
"I don't doubt it. See that the one you show the seeing world is the one making the decisions, or we won't last long down in the desert. A prince's protection or no." A sellsword's sense indeed. He shook himself.
"Do you think she found a ship? After the trial?"
"If I say anything other than 'yes', she'll never leave your thoughts. Either your father's had her killed her already for that Giant of Lannister business or she's gone beneath his notice. Her hide's no more concern of yours, best consider mine. Your squire's, as well."
"Are you still surly about Stokeworth?" Tyrion scoffed.
"Tell me you'd take a dimwitted cow and a pile of overgrown stones over a romp through Dorne's brothels."
"'Twould be nice to be landed. I've done more than enough to earn a bit of security." Bronn replied.
"I won't dispute that. What was offered to you was a pittance, though. The pit, not the peach."
"Carry many peaches your father doesn't know about?" Bronn's tone was doubtful.
"I'm still married to Sansa Stark, who by rights is Lady of Winterfell."
"Married to a ghost, you mean. Unless you actually managed to winkle her out from under your father's and sister's noses both, which I rather question." Tyrion was about to tell him not to be daft, but instead he gave no answer, instead thinking on what he'd told Bronn in his cell. All to the better if intrepid Ser Bronn of the Blackwater thinks there's a possibility, however remote, that Sansa is still in my grasp- and that big piece of the north I told him about is still in his.
When Prince Oberyn himself troubled to saunter over, Tyrion posed a question that had been on his mind.
"You came by land to King's Landing for Joffrey's wedding."
"So I did." the prince replied, casually spitting in the direction of the city itself as it receded across Blackwater Bay.
"Why leave by sea?"
"Ellaria was loathe to spend so much time on horseback again and if I'm honest, I'm in no great hurry to take the long road home either. Fewer distractions aboard a ship, fewer chances to be waylaid."
"Barring storms on the high seas and pirates in the Stepstones, both of which bedevil the Narrow Sea this time of year." Oberyn shrugged.
"Pirates hunt easy prey. Fat trading cogs and the like. They won't pester us, for what have we to steal?"
"I'm sure if Cersei got her hands on a raven or twelve, she'd do her utmost to see them shitting on every rock in the Stepstones and her words in the hands of every outlaw on those beaches."
"Would your lord father allow such a thing?" The prince acted almost scandalized.
"Perhaps, perhaps not, but Cersei will never rest while I live. If she must grant some sandbar and a keep on the coast to hold my head in her hands, she'll do so without blinking. It's a long voyage from here to Sunspear. If such birds exist, surely some of them will reach the Stepstones before we do." Oberyn Martell had become a sphinx again.
"Then I'll send a bird or two of mine own. Let my brother know the Broken Arm off Dorne's coast ought be more carefully patrolled…at least until we return. No doubt he'll wonder why, as no doubt he expects me back by land as well…and rather without a certain dwarf in my company." Tyrion chewed on that.
"Do you intend to keep my presence in Dorne secret, my prince?"
"Far from it. I intend to fly you from the tallest spire of the Tower of the Sun beneath our own house banner. It's just that Doran does not do much thinking on his feet…" Crippled by gout, I should think not, Tyrion thought wryly.
"As you say, my prince. I shouldn't think my visit will much prove a bother for him, even with my Lannister blood."
"What seems a burden can on the morrow become a boon, my lord." Oberyn replied. Not bloody likely, Tyrion thought. The westermen would follow Joffrey's corpse before me.
"Joanna," Tyrion said as the small cabin swayed. The ship was in the tender hands of an autumn storm, and he didn't fancy seeing one in person only to be swept overboard. He, Bronn and Pod had between them a skin of mulled wine, whiling away the long leagues playing a drinking game. "She died birthing me." Neither knight nor squire bid him drink, but he did so anyway. It's a sorry truth I've no doubt both have heard before.
"Your turn, lad. Who was your mother, and where is she now?" Bronn asked. Pod's lip quivered, though Tyrion judged that was more the storm's fault than Bronn's question.
"Mariah. She ran off with a bard when I was four, and that was the last I saw of her." he said. As it happened, Tyrion knew that tale in turn, though he'd never heard the wench named before. He brought his cup up for another go.
"Drink." Bronn told Pod. Tyrion looked up, intrigued.
"The lad speaks true."
"About what happened to his wench of a mother, maybe. Not her name, though." At this, Pod turned pink.
"Pod the Liar sounds almost heroic." Tyrion said as Pod drank. "The sort of label that turns a girl's head. Common or highborn, girls your age love a hint of danger."
"Wait until he gives them more than a hint." Bronn intoned, filling their cups while Pod spluttered.
"Your turn, ser." he said, trying to change the subject. The sellsword-turned-knight swirled his cup around, looking from Pod's face to Tyrion's, looking no less content than a hog in shit.
"Her name was Edhain." he said. Who hit harder than your father, Tyrion remembered. "Edhain? Sounds northern." he mused aloud, unsure if he'd heard enough to say one way or another just yet. "And what did Edhain of the heavy hand do, apart from birth the heroic Ser Bronn of the Blackwater?" Bronn smirked his hunting shadowcat smirk.
"Patched up wounds, didn't she? Not quite a woods witch, but knew where to stick a bone needle to keep a man's insides where they ought be." Tyrion knew well Bronn's moods when gold (or lack thereof) was concerned, but when there was aught at stake but pride, Tyrion was as helpless as a bait lamb.
"A bone needle? Not something more hard-wearing?" Pod asked, heedless of the riddle posed to them. I have a riddle for you, ser, Tyrion thought. What's the best way to lie? By telling the truth. While Bronn smirked, Tyrion slowly emptied his cup.
His dreams were filled with Edhain, who had no face but hard, heavy hands, clutching in one hand a long bone needle and the other Tyrion's severed nose.
"Now, let's put this just back where it belongs." She sounded like a Cerseified Bronn, a notion so terrifying it jolted Tyrion awake, slung in a hammock across from the snoring Bronn. His head swam and his belly roiled. Too much wine, Imp, he thought as his brain surged against the inside of his skull. You'd do well to keep a clear head once you reach Sunspear. He eased himself up on his elbows, flopping uselessly in the cloth cocoon of the hammock before he succeeded in extricating himself. Slowly he lowered himself to the floor. Best let them sleep it off. The floor had ceased to sway and slide beneath him, leading Tyrion to think they'd perhaps found calmer seas. A respite before the next squall. The seas off Tarth and Shipbreaker Bay were full of them, most like Tyrion would have at least one more night of lying and drinking to look forward to before they reached Sunspear. Wearily he poked his head out the cabin door, looking around out of habit. A shit-brown rat near the stair was busy gnawing on something, turning to peer at Tyrion on the sound of the door opening.
"Don't mind me." he said, waddling toward the stairs. The rat neither fled nor even blinked, staring at him with little red eyes. "You're a King's Landing rat, no question. There's none half so large, nor half so bold." He rifled through his pockets, coming up with a crumbling bread crust. No doubt I stowed it for later in my drunken revels. "Father thought that displaying House Lannister's largesse was a display of Casterly Rock's power." He sprinkled the crumbs at his feet, the rat watching raptly. "A turd with a tail." Tyrion said, ascending the stair to the sound of little feet scrabbling toward the stale crumbs, sharp teeth gnawing them to dust. At least someone from the capital has only good things waiting for them in Dorne. Fat juicy oranges, fresh fish off the Planky Town, oodles of she-rats…or he-rats, whichever. Tyrion hadn't exactly made it a point to check.
The sea air in his lungs pushed the wine out of his eyes and made him take a deep breath. The first I've taken that wasn't tainted with the smell of shit. Truly, if he was honest with himself, he couldn't begin to find a reason why so many would fight so long over possession of the Iron Throne. The city it sits over is little better than an open sewer, no matter how many golden roses are packed into it.
"Almost as soon as I arrived in your father's city, I could scarcely go five minutes without imagining what leaving it would feel like." Prince Oberyn's voice carried over the deck. "Now I know. I never thought I'd take air that didn't reek for granted…Sunspear is a flower garden by comparison. Even Lannisport, reeking of lions, did not stink the way King's Landing does. But then, it isn't stained with my sister's blood, nor her children's."
"King's Landing isn't my father's city." Tyrion said.
"Whose, then? The little king's? He is his mother's, and she is your lord father's." Whether that was strictly true seemed open to interpretation to Tyrion, but he suspected the prince wasn't in the mood to argue semantics.
"Fear not, my prince. I may have strings aplenty, but just now you pull more than my father."
"I gathered as much when he saw fit to let you stand trial for a crime anyone impartial could guess in reasonably good faith that you didn't commit."
"Oh? So it was my air of unblemished innocence that bid you take up arms in my defense."
"That, and the brain between my ears. A more likely culprit, a more obvious culprit than you I cannot myself imagine. You held the chalice yourself, the one the king drank poisoned wine from not a moment later. I know from experience that things are rarely so simple in the game of thrones." This sphinx's singing hurts my head, thought Tyrion.
"I was rather preoccupied with disputing mine own predetermined guilt to much wonder who indeed might actually be to blame."
"I would have thought you smart enough to see the sword above your head was destined to fall, and hard, no matter what evidence you could give to prove your innocence."
"And do what, puzzle out the guilty party just to make my father's job easier? Bugger him blind. When you killed the Mountain, not only did you free me from that shadow, you put the burden on my father to find whoever actually killed Joffrey. No doubt my sister will badger him mercilessly that he let the murderer get away, but once she's married off and away from Tommen, I suspect she'll be too busy hating her new husband to send knives after me." Then again, I'd do well not to underestimate the bitch going forward. The viper's glittering eyes told Tyrion much the same thing.
The storms off Tarth were even worse than Tyrion feared. Worse yet, they did not let up until they were well quit of Cape Wrath. I wonder how wanton his paramour is feeling just now, she who opted for the sea instead of the long road overland. More than once he'd spotted Ser Daemon returning to his own cabin after a rushing up to the deck, looking green all the while. The rat had gone to ground, though Tyrion heard him (her?) scratching and gnawing the wood beneath him every night. When we reach Susnpear the hull will look like a worm-eaten apple. The first day they went unplagued by storms, Oberyn surprised Tyrion with a long, thin dagger.
"For uncorking wine, no doubt." His jest was met by a humorless smirk.
"Should pirates indeed come upon us, you may be mistaken for a child from behind. One may take you hostage, hold a dagger to your throat. Should that happen, you'll have the opportunity to sting him in the thigh with this while he screams at me or your Ser Bronn for gold in exchange for your life." He showed Tyrion how to slip the blade up his sleeve. "It won't open your arm," he reassured Tyrion, "it's for poking, not cutting."
"If I must profess any skill at arms, it was a shield I killed a man with. I'm partial to an axe as well."
"Show me the shield you can hide in a sleeve, my lord. Show me the axe."
"As you will, my prince." My strings are yours to pull. Until I work out just what mischief I may work from Dorne, which you'll likely play more than a small part in anyhow. It made Tyrion think on just what the prince was hoping to achieve, bringing him to Sunspear. The rest of House Martell would loathe him for his Lannister name and blood, the Dornish in general would resent the dwarf in residence in the Tower of the Sun…yet it was not his gold the prince was after. After all, Tyrion had none. Nor is it my worth as a hostage. Father wouldn't spend a penny to pull me from death's door. If he were a less circumspect man, he might suppose it was his intellect or perhaps his seemly built-for purpose of minding Myrcella, but hadn't Prince Oberyn said it himself? Things are rarely so simple in the game of thrones.
Though autumn had begun to work its roots into King's Landing, the Dornish coast might well have been the Lands of the Long Summer. Before the Doom, anyway. Tyrion saw leagues of beach roll by, quite content to endure the last leg of the voyage topside instead of down with the last of the wine and the unseen rat scrabbling away somewhere. If Oberyn had indeed gotten word to his brother to increase the frequency of patrols, Tyrion saw no evidence of it, but neither were there any pirates waiting to snatch them up.
"Might we have waited for the rest of your lords?" Tyrion asked him.
"We left them behind two days ago, and I want to get home. Time wasted waiting for my brothers' lords is not easily made up for." So you say, but I find I've rather all the time in the world and still more on my hands. Pod was muttering the list of Dornish houses to himself, though Tyrion was sure he'd long since memorized it.
"Enough of that, lad. You're not going to impress a Dornishwoman with House Dalt's history."
"What about a Dalt proper? They the lemony ones?" Bronn asked, idly popping the joints on his hand.
"Landed knights. Lemonwood is near Sunspear. Ser." Pod replied. Landed knights fully in House Martell's favor, Tyrion mused. With little patience for a squire born low among the Payne tree's branches, I would hazard. He knew Pod was smarter than to blunder so badly, though. Besides, the boy had trouble enough opening his mouth before, let alone in the middle of a court of Dornishmen.
"Just don't use the term "red wench" where anyone can hear you." he advised Pod while Bronn casually picked his teeth. He's like to pick more than a few fights. Hopefully Prince Doran wouldn't mind. The Red Viper can't nanny me all day, it pays to keep a good killer around to keep me out of trouble.
The day before they were due to reach Sunspear, Pod prodded Tyrion awake.
"The prince wants to see you on the deck, my lord." "No doubt he wants to show me some godsforsaken stretch of desert where a million westermen died in a night or some such nonsense." Tyrion replied, groaning at the sound of scratching in the wood. You fat beady-eyed fuck. When he managed to meet the prince, Oberyn was standing at the ship's bow. However, his eyes were pointed east toward the open sea and Essos beyond it.
"You look of half a mind to tell the captain to turn for Lys, my prince. If not Volantis."
"Why not? My brother knows me to be impetuous and doesn't yet know you're in my company. This time next week we could both of us be in Lys, drinking fresh-squeezed juice served by the most beautiful women in the world."
"The scandal, my prince. I'm married, after all."
"So you are. A pity, it would have done your northern wife good to see the south as it was meant to be seen." Oh, you're mistaken, my prince. I have Sansa in the hold, I've been feeding her crumbs and just waiting for the perfect time to introduce you. Wherever she was, assuming she was still alive, Tyrion hoped she was in better hands than Cersei's. Small chance. The girl has worse luck than I do. He shrugged.
"Lead and I will follow, my prince. Be it Sunspear or Lys, or Volantis, or Valyria itself. I am nothing if not loyal." It took the prince a long while to tear his gaze from the eastern horizon.
"The spirit is willing, but alas, I recall that snakes have no feet, and so the only steps vouchsafed them are little ones." He wiggled a finger.
"Speaking for those with short legs, you'd be amazed what is possible when the spirit is willing."
"I believe you're right, my lord. Why, I seem to recall someone of your stature figuring somewhat pruriently, and in the history of House Targaryen to boot. Viserys the First kept a dwarf fool at his court, Mushroom. Everyone thought him a lackwit and a feeblemind, when-"
"He was neither in truth. I know the sordid accounts of the Dance as well as any maester, my prince." Tyrion studied Oberyn's face. "Is that the game, then? I'm to be your Mushroom? Well, better to be a mushroom than feed them-"
"Had I thought my brother wanted for a court fool, I would have invited Mace Tyrell." No, truly?
"I did rather call Joff a vicious bastard at my trial. That may have kindled a few fires in need of quick putting out, perhaps even thrown Tommen's claim into doubt in the eyes of the crownlands. Some might have called that foolish."
"You stood condemned and vilified by your own blood. Temper is not something I would blame a man for showing in such a sorry state." Oberyn did not seem overly out of sorts with what Tyrion had implied.
"Why, my prince, if Tommen is no Baratheon, that means Myrcella isn't, either." Again, Oberyn regarded him for a long time without saying anything.
"Myrcella is a girl of high breeding, cultivated courtesies and sharp wit. A lack of Baratheon blood may not mean so much as you suppose, my lord. Indeed, it is no trouble to keep her betrothal to Trystane intact, even assuming what you imply. King's blood or no, she is your niece, after all." In other words, if Myrcella's safety is my price, it will be met. But what is the viper seeking to buy with it?