A Storm of Angels

Slowly, the brothers made their way through the walkways. The common people were all dark skinned, some wearing robes, some wearing rags, some wearing nothing at all. Prostitutes gave them knowing smiles and tried to beckon them close with a finger. Dean always looked poised to go over and indulge them, but Sam placed a hand on his shoulder and warned him:

"Remember what Cas said."

At the mention of Cas' name Dean stopped. He always seemed unsure of himself around women if he was thinking of Cas at the same time. He never could understand why.

"Crowley wants you to meet with Cersei Lannister," Cas had told them, "Do not listen to him. This Lannister woman barely holds onto what power she has. I would feel better off if you were to go East, across the Narrow Sea to Slaver's Bay. In the City of Meereen, a young woman they call the Mother of Dragons rules as Queen."

"The what?" Dean was even more cynical with Cas than he had been with Crowley. Cas continued.

"She is struggling with her power as Cersei is, but she has better friends, wiser and more honourable serving her. Outside the city is the encampment of her enemies, but hidden amongst them is a man who I believe you should meet. Stay low, don't attract attention, and stay safe."

Then the brothers had felt the touch of Cas' fingers upon their foreheads, and immediately found themselves standing on boiling sand, surrounded by clouds of dust and the flapping folds of tents. The heat was encompassing, so much so that Sam nearly felt himself give way, until Dean steadied him. Above them the sky was the deepest blue, with a blinding sun silhouetting the enormous pyramid of Meereen beyond the walls of the city.

Upon the agreement to split up and meet again in an hour, Dean had left Sam and took to strolling through the shade of the Yunkish camp. He passed an endless line of people with collars round their necks all waiting to draw water from a well.

"If she knew anything about sieges she would have known to poison the wells," He heard one old man say reproachfully.

"Our Mhysa would never do such a thing," A child disagreed, "She will come forward from her city of coloured brick and smash our chains."

A few of the water-seekers began eyeing Dean with a hostile manner; he took it as his sign to leave. Once more he found himself wandering closer to the brothels of the camp. With a light interest he watched the whores with their olive skin and large hazel eyes, every pair looking at him up and down.

If I wanted to be hidden away, where would I go?

He ducked past some of the women who gazed after him with a delighted smile, and into the darkness of the tent. Both women and men were everywhere, some drinking, some gambling.

As Dean began to weave his way through sweaty bodies and the powerful smell of wine, he tried to think.

How would I dress, if I wanted to be hidden away. Like everyone else, genius.

Out of the corner of his eye Dean noticed a man seated at one of the tables who hadn't put his cup down since he arrived. A hideous scar with an infectious colour had disfigured his face, leaving him without a nose. As he peered closer Dean realised the man had one eye black and the other green. He nearly felt embarrassed enough to look away when they found him.

"By all means, stare, my friend," The voice was eloquent, and the last kind of tone he had expected to hear, "Most stare in revulsion; it's quite enjoyable to have someone merely curious."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked. His new friend gave him a look he couldn't read, and got to his feet. A dwarf was the least strangest of things he was bound to see in a place called Essos; considering all else he had seen in his life, he paid it no mind.

"Is that it? You're short? Ain't it got nothin' to do with your face?"

A bemused smirk crossed the dwarf's face.

"The last straight-talking man I met turned out to be a killer who ended up a married Lord in a castle," He remarked, "May I have your name, good man?"

"Dean Wincester," Dean gave it, "And you?"

"I am Tyrion of House Lannister," The dwarf gave his name with a sarcastic sort of pride, reaching for his cup, "And I am also the God of tits and wine."

"Now we're talking," Dean perked up, and took a seat as Tyrion sat down again.

The black and green eyes passed over Dean's clothes.

"Low born, I believe… never knew your father, mother was probably a whore…" Tyrion mused.

"Shut the hell up." Dean's voice became hard. No mother who gave her life for her children against a demon could be low. No man who called Mary Wincester a whore lived. The Colt was cold in his hand. Its barrel rested perfectly still on the edge of the table, pointed at Tyrion Lannister. The dwarf himself stared at it with curiosity. After taking another swig of wine he asked,

"And what is this charming device?"

Dean said nothing. Above Tyrion's head there was a tapestry hung on the wall of the tent. The trigger slid backward smoothly, and the Colt went off with a thunderous sound. Tyrion went as still as a block of ice, his eyes wide with fright. Dean gave him a grin. The poor bastard looked as though he had had a heart attack. Slowly, ever so slowly, Tyrion turned his head. He was still weary of the Colt, which had a small trail of smoke curling from its barrel. There was a small, perfect circular hole where the bullet had gone through in the tapestry. The sound still echoed in the tent, and all throughout the camp, it seemed. An eerie silence followed, which Tyrion did not fail to note, although he could do nothing about it, for Dean still had the Colt pointed at him.

Tread carefully with this one, Tyrion told himself, best not to mention the Mother again.

"I apologise…" He ventured cautiously, "…for the offence I have given."

"I don't give a rat's ass," Dean replied, his mind made up, "You're coming with me."