10 years later, on the Narrow Sea

The sea was quiet and calm as blue porcelain that morning; stretching out to a shimmering horizon that only seemed to grow more crimson as the sun peeped higher above the clouds. It was a welcome respite from the previous two days of storms, lashing rain and sitting trapped below deck drinking too much, but when Tyrion read the contents of the raven scroll, he was seized by a sudden fit of nausea and vomited over the side anyway. He did not know if this reaction stemmed from excessive drinking, or from what he had just read.

They had been in Braavos for the better part of a year; holed up in negotiations with the Iron Bank from sunup to sundown; and the constant process of listening to some verbose Braavosi rattle off a list of what were no doubt demands, listening to Arya as she interpreted the list of what were indeed demands, refusing every one of the demands and watching the verbose Braavosi's face as Arya told him of the refusal of said demands, had been more exhausting than he could ever have imagined, and had required the consumption of more prodigious amounts of alcohol than ever before in the name of staying sane.

So it couldn't possibly be the wine. He only wished he could tell that to the crew-members who were hugging their sides, throwing their heads back and laughing their cretinous Braavosi heads off at the sight of him.

An abrupt scattering of both crew-members and laughter announced Arya's appearance on deck, and Tyrion almost began to laugh himself at the (admittedly foggy) memory of the sailors' initial and very different behaviour towards her on the day that they had first boarded the ship. Despite Tyrion and Arya's known status as diplomats from the Dragon King and Queen of Westeros who were to be afforded every courtesy, Lady Stark's arrival on board had been greeted with a great deal of whistling, catcalling and lewd comments in colloquial Braavosi that Tyrion had only understood because of the brothels that he had frequented during their stay. Arya, her face blank and her eyes burning, had tossed her long dark hair over her shoulder and had slowly approached the captain, who had performed a cursory examination of her breasts before asking her if she wanted to fuck.

'Valar morghulis,' Arya had replied, handing him an iron coin.

The colour had drained from the fool's face with satisfying rapidity.

'Valar – valar dohaeris,' he had responded in a trembling voice, before staring at his boots, saying his prayers and clearly expecting her to impale him on the nearest sharp object.

Arya had stepped away from the captain as though he mattered less than the dirt beneath her boots; they had gotten underway with a speed that Tyrion wouldn't have believed possible; the news had spread like wildfire that they had a Faceless Man on board; and both travellers had been given a wide berth after that by all but the bravest and the most stupid.

Except, of course, when the dwarf decides to commit the shocking indiscretion of vomiting over the side without his pet horror-of-all-horrors holding his hand while he does it.

Arya, dressed for the day in sword, dagger and her habitual Kingsguard leathers, ignored the fleeing sailors completely and came to stand next to him with her back to the sea; taking in his condition with a withered eye. Tyrion glared at her. She might be a judgmental hag, but he could not deny that she was glorious: beautiful, utterly deadly and only one-and-twenty to boot. He'd been tempted to try fucking her once or twice, but he had no doubt that she'd kill him if he tried. She'd probably tell Dany too, for that matter, and then he'd be genuinely fucked.

The thought made him vomit again.

'The captain says we should reach King's Landing today, if the weather holds,' Arya remarked breezily.

Tyrion, still vomiting, said nothing.

'I told you you shouldn't have had the Arbour gold.'

'Do shut up, Lady Stark.'

'As my lord commands.'

Tyrion straightened up and wiped his mouth; craning his neck as he looked up at her.

'Any news?' Arya asked.

'A raven from King Aegon,' Tyrion told her.

'What does he want?' she asked calmly; her face darkening despite her tone.

Tyrion turned and threw the crumpled raven scroll into the sea; smiling with disproportionate satisfaction as he watched the waves swallow it up.

'He's too late,' Tyrion remarked, 'so it doesn't really matter. But His Grace asks us to stay in Braavos for another three months.'

'What reason did His Grace give?' Arya enquired, as serenely as though she didn't give a fourpenny fuck.

Tyrion shrugged.

'Something to do with winning over the Sea Lord as well as the Iron Bank.'

'Contemptible.'

'Annoying.'

'Don't be coy. You know perfectly well he only suggested it to keep you and Her Grace apart.'

Anger, impatience and truth boiled fiercely in the pit of Tyrion's stomach.

'There is nothing between me and Daenerys,' he seethed, 'not anymore. And I'd be obliged if you'd remember it.'

Arya rolled her eyes at him.

'When can we just kill the lying son of a bitch?' she ventured, 'even if it's merely for the sake of getting the two of you to stop moping?'

'Daenerys will not risk a regicide so early in their reign; even one that makes it look like he died in his sleep,' Tyrion replied, irritated by her tone, 'it will do nothing but restore the anarchy of the war years. The Targaryen dynasty must be adequately re-established before sweet King Aegon meets with a tragic accident.'

'Or Her Grace could spare herself a lot of time and trouble by telling every lord in the kingdoms the truth about him.'

'She has no proof. Unless your masters are willing to furnish us with the proof they say they have.'

'Dream on, Tyrion.'

'I rest my case. She can hardly accuse Aegon of being false, and then present 'he doesn't feel right' as proof. That wouldn't stand up at dinner, leave alone in court.'

It was true that Daenerys had never had conclusive proof of Aegon's falseness; though she had known of it long before the Faceless Men had sent Arya to her at Meereen. An instinct, she had called it, a stirring of fire and blood with a loneliness about it that the knowledge of Aegon's existence had done nothing to assuage. Then one day, a traveller had arrived at the palace gates like a wraith from another world; presenting herself to the Unsullied on duty under the banner of the House of Black and White, and telling them, in impeccable High Valyrian, that she respectfully begged audience with 'Daenerys Jelmāzmo hen Targārio Lentrot'.

Grey Worm had been more agitated than Tyrion had ever seen him and had raised stringent objections to the traveller's being allowed into so much as the palace gatehouse, let alone into the throne room. Ser Barristan had agreed with him, though with rather more composure; insisting that whatever this Faceless Man had to say for herself was not worth the risk of admitting such a person to Her Grace's presence. Tyrion had told both of them not to be ridiculous. If the Faceless Men had wanted to kill the queen, they certainly wouldn't have been so foolish as to send their man in through the front gate.

Daenerys had agreed with him:

'I am not afraid of men with many faces.'

Then you're a fool, my love. I would never have thought.

But when the traveller had entered the throne room, she had only had one face, and a command of the Common Tongue that could not be taught; and Tyrion had stared at her for a long moment, before turning to Ser Barristan for confirmation of what he already knew.

A decade had passed since Arya Stark's disappearance. A girl had already been passed off as her once before; sent off to Roose Bolton to be tortured by his idiot son. Anyone with the right colouring might attempt it – the right colouring, and the right inducement. But this was more than just a matter of colouring. The traveller that stood before them had the Stark look; the jaw, the eyes, the innate, inimitable gravity of expression; and unless Lord Stark had been so foolish as to father another bastard after the silent hell his wife had given him for Jon Snow…unlikely…

Ser Barristan had stared straight back at Tyrion without saying a word; as pale and disturbed as a man who had seen a ghost.

'You are welcome to Meereen, my…lady,' Daenerys had greeted, unsure of the correct mode of address for speaking to Faceless Men.

I should look it up.

'Thank you, Your Grace,' the traveller had replied, bowing.

'What business brings you to Meereen?' Daenerys had continued cautiously.

The traveller had fixed her eyes on the queen.

'My masters, the elders of the Faceless Men of Braavos,' the traveller had responded, her grey eyes hard and illegible, 'send the Dragon Queen a gift for her Queensguard; a sign of goodwill and support for her cause: the gift of she that was Arya of the House Stark.'

Daenerys had stared at her with all the politeness that her bewilderment would allow her.

'The Faceless Men have sent me – she that was Arya of the House Stark?' Dany had asked, the mere pronouncement of the word 'Stark' bringing a hint of angry colour to her cheek, 'who are you, then?'

'No one, Your Grace.'

Daenerys, Tyrion and Ser Barristan had deliberated overnight in the queen's solar. Dany had been reluctant, uncertain and utterly overwhelmed; a past that she had not lived, but that she felt acutely every day of her life, tracing circles of darkness in her violet eyes.

The girl's father had been the Usurper's greatest friend. How could she trust her?

Tyrion had smiled grimly at her constant, incurable insistence on trusting people, before pointing out that in himself and in Ser Barristan, she had in her service two people who could arguably be called the Usurper's chief protector and the son of the Usurper's chief ally.

'That's different,' Dany had insisted.

'Is it?' Tyrion had replied, 'how?'

Dany had pushed out her chair and had begun to pace before the window, signalling to them to remain in their seats when they rose with her. Her hair had been the colour of moonlight.

'I am not insensible of the honour afforded me by the support of the Faceless Men,' Dany had said, 'and I am certainly not eager to offend them, but I must confess that I fear for the girl. I fear that she is being used for some political advantage.'

'Of course she's being used for political advantage!' Tyrion had exclaimed, trying hard not to laugh, 'there is no organisation more political than the Faceless Men. They are not like the Night's Watch; insisting left, right and center that they take no part. It is impossible to charge millions of dragons over hundreds of years for murdering people without being political in some way. The very fact that the girl has been permitted to present herself under her true name – more or less – is proof that politics play some role, if not the only role, in their decision to send her here. And the support of the Faceless Men, well; let's just say that having one on the Queensguard is likely to make our enemies shit themselves. It will strike fear into their hearts and make them run for their lives.'

He had meant the expression to be a joke, but Ser Barristan had naturally insisted on taking him seriously:

'It will do nothing of the kind if the girl strikes a dagger into Her Grace's heart at the first opportunity,' the old knight had said.

'If they wanted her dead, she'd be dead already,' Tyrion had repeated in exasperation as Ser Barristan glared down his nose at him.

'You have not considered the consequences of your being wrong, Lord Tyrion.'

'I am hardly ever wrong.'

'Such modesty!'

'I am known for my modesty. It is proportionate to my height.'

'Be quiet, Tyrion!' Daenerys had interrupted.

'As Your Grace commands.'

Daenerys had taken her seat once again.

'It will certainly make a great quantity of people very uncomfortable,' she had said, 'and it will assure the loyalty of the North and the Vale when the time comes. Lady Arya's sister rules in both, does she not?'

'In the Stormlands too, before Aegon landed,' Tyrion had replied, 'and yes, she holds the Vale and the North, but that in no way guarantees us her support. Let us not forget that Lady Sansa is a she-wolf of note, and possesses a remarkable ability to make her husbands die in their sleep when she grows tired of them. The woman is – what's the word?'

'Unpredictable?'

'Very. It is wiser to assume nothing where she is concerned.'

Daenerys had fallen silent for a moment, clearly pondering if Lady Sansa was to be cherished or feared, before looking across the table at Ser Barristan; who had served both her father and the Usurper, and whom she trusted in spite of the fact.

Tyrion would have preferred her to have no trust altogether. But 'trust in spite of the fact'; her own peculiar kind of trust…it was the worst sort of trust that existed. Or perhaps it was the best.

'What is your opinion, Ser Barristan?' Dany had asked.

'She is a woman, Your Grace,' Ser Barristan had promptly responded, 'and I like her not.'

Daenerys had smiled ironically; her face the very picture of delight.

'Do you fear distraction, Ser Barristan?'

'No, Your Grace. But I am only one man among many. A woman on the Queensguard will cause nothing but division, strife and mischief, both here and when we return to Westeros. Her present and future brothers will be distracted by her presence, and the lords of Westeros will not love you for such a break with tradition.'

'No,' Daenerys had smiled, 'but their wives might.'

When there had been nothing more to say on the subject, Ser Barristan had left them alone, and Dany had moved from her seat at the head of the council table to take the one next to Tyrion's. He had taken her hand almost automatically.

'I think I'll accept her,' Dany had said; winding her fingers through his, 'I would be foolish not to. And as you say; if she wanted to kill me, she would have done it by now.'

'You're right to accept her,' Tyrion had replied; his blood like wine in his veins, 'though it's likely to send your entire household into collective apoplexy.'

'They'll get used to it,' Dany had replied, 'people will get used to anything.'

'It's true.'

And he had thought of the night that Father had died; how heavy the crossbow had been in his hands and how lurid the smell of excrement in his nostrils; and the old man's eyes had been pale and unsettling, even in death; his fingers convulsing and grasping at the air just as Tysha's had when the silver had sung and weighed them down and turned her to iron and blood; though now she was only blood…

Dany's fingers had been cool on his face as she had kissed him and whispered to him to come back; and with her arms around him, and her heart so warm he could feel the heat of it on her lips, he had come back; as he always did; as she had always helped him to.

Daenerys had summoned the girl to her private chambers the next morning, and had spoken to her with an uncertain but regal blend of both kindness and severity while Tyrion and Ser Barristan had looked on; the former with interest, the latter with caution and disapproval.

'I will have no person in my service who answers to the name of 'No one," Dany had declared, 'if you are to remain with us, then you must bear your former name.'

It had taken the girl some time to understand what was being asked of her. When the realisation had finally dawned, her face had changed completely; settling into a strange expression that Tyrion had never seen on the face of any human being before: an enigmatic, almost undefinable mix of amusement, fear… and pity; the sort of pity that one felt for innocence, and childhood.

'My former name, Your Grace?' she had repeated.

'Yes,' Daenerys had insisted, her voice bearing the sweetness of liberator and mother both, of Mhysa, 'your name is Arya, of the House Stark.'

'I am no longer Arya of the House Stark, Your Grace.'

'Nevertheless, that is what you will be called, and that is who you will be. You will remember your name and you will remember who you are. Else I will not have you in my service.'

'This is a difficult command, Your Grace.'

Daenerys' nostrils had flared at that.

'You have not yet begun your duties and already you disobey me?' she had demanded, 'do the Faceless Men mean to insult me with your presence?'

'No, Your Grace,' the girl had replied, entirely unaffected by the queen's calculated outburst, 'my presence is a gesture of respect and fidelity.'

'Excellent. Then we agree.'

Fear had risen in the girl's eyes, then – but it hadn't been fear of Daenerys.

Fear of her masters, perhaps? Fear of herself?

Tyrion's eyes had fallen on the girl's hair, then. It was very long. Almost down to her waist. Exactly the way that her mother had worn it.

It's a coincidence. Many women have long hair.

'We agree, Your Grace,' the girl had said eventually, and Tyrion's suspicions had been aroused once again.

That was too easy. That was far too easy.

But Daenerys had accepted Arya into her service with no such reservations; the girl had been instructed to report to Ser Barristan for her duties and to the palace armourers for her white plate; her first watch over the queen had been quiet, unremarkable and entirely free of any of the mysterious deaths that most of the household had expected; but when Tyrion had seen Dany that night for their customary interview after supper, he had found her quiet, pale and crushed by the murder of a hope that she had never been conscious of having at all.

'The Aegon Targaryen in Westeros is no Targaryen at all,' Dany had murmured, her voice like ashes, 'the Faceless Men have proof, but claim that they cannot give it to me without "covering all the world in shadow."

'How do you know this?' Tyrion had asked.

'From Arya,' Dany had replied; her breathing fragile and broken, 'she told me the moment we were left alone.'

Tyrion had padded softly across the room to where she sat; trying not to show his surprise at her reaction.

'Dany, you have known of Aegon's falseness for years,' he had said, gently laying a hand on her shoulder, 'you have told me so, many times.'

'Yes,' Dany had murmured, 'of course I have.'

Tyrion had stood awkwardly for a moment, trying to think of something comforting to say.

'The Faceless men could be lying,' he had suggested unconvincingly.

Daenerys had looked at him, her eyes bright with tears.

'Do you think they're lying?'

His silence had been all the reply that was needed.

The news of Aegon's falseness had been the inducement that Daenerys had needed to commence taking back what was hers; and in the months that had followed, she had devoted herself to the planning of two great conquests that at times seemed to have equal importance in her estimation: the conquest of Westeros, and the conquest of Arya Stark's namelessness. Tyrion had dedicated himself to the first and had steered well clear of the second; thinking it unnecessary, dangerous, absurd and doomed to fail.

You can't save everyone, my love, he had thought.

That certainly hadn't stopped Dany from trying.

Arya's initial reaction to the command that she reassume an identity that had been stringently trained out of her for almost a decade had led Dany to conclude that despite the fact that the girl had sworn to obey her, she could not (and would not, most likely) attempt to obey her sovereign's command without help. Daenerys had therefore begun to spend time that could very ill be spared in ceaselessly interrogating the girl about her life: her memories, her family, her experiences and her time with the Faceless Men.

These attempts at – was 'humanisation' the right word? – had been disastrous, and had at first been met with a stone wall of sullen staring, gracious evasion and constant repetitions of the phrase 'I'm afraid I don't remember, Your Grace.' Dany's desperation to get the girl to say something – anything – had soon transformed her questioning into deliberate, premeditated provocation, and it had not been very long before both women had grown to detest the very sight of each other; Daenerys' fervent attempts at incitement and Arya's equally-fervent refusals to abandon the serenity of namelessness bringing about a state of war that neither was willing to renounce for the sake of peace and quiet; and that soon bled out into further, almost nightly confrontations and pleas for reason between Tyrion and Daenerys in their part of the palace and Arya and Ser Barristan in theirs.

Tyrion would have preferred Daenerys to conduct experiments with less potential for causing headaches, or for aggravating a skilled assassin in their midst. But eventually, unbelievably, it had been an argument with Daenerys that had brought Arya Stark back.

Well. When I say 'brought her back…'

Tyrion remembered the day that it had happened. It had been unseasonably hot. Arya (suffocating in her armour) and Daenerys (suffocating in her tokar) had both been rather more miserable and impatient than usual; and the latter, in a final act of desperate but callous provocation, had decided to try calling Ned Stark a coward, a fool and a traitor to the girl's face. And anger had ripped the namelessness from Arya Stark like a blade drawing blood from a corpse.

The girl's wrath had been terrifying. It had been silent and trembling at first; before rising to a crescendo of grief and horror and memory; and her words, and all that they expressed, had seemed for the first time to belong to her; to the rage, to the hurt, and to the love of the person that she had once been and to the person that she had become; to the girl who had learned stillness, but could never unlearn wolf blood. She had shouted that her father had been an honourable man and a kind man; that he had never been a traitor, not on the day that he died, nor on the day that he had joined Robert in his rebellion to depose the Mad King. She had said that treason melted away in the wake of such a man, until only honour was left; that her father had joined the rebellion for honour and for love and for grief; that he had helped crush the Targaryens for the same reasons; and that he had lost his head for the same reasons too: for honour and for love and for grief.

Daenerys, who had spent months aggravating the girl, had at that point decided to take genuine offence at what had, after all, been the result of her own folly; and the two women had spent hours arguing passionately and senselessly about events and wars and battles that neither of them had witnessed in the first place.

My brother was right and your aunt was wrong. My House was right and yours was wrong. My people were honourable; your people were traitors. Your father was evil and mine was blameless.

Is this what Westeros will be in the future? Tyrion had thought as he had listened to them, is this what we will return to? Ignorance fighting ignorance with cruelty and judgment; children teaching children what their parents have told them; North hating South, South hating North; both sides ensuring that no one will ever forget?

But as Arya and Daenerys had shouted at each other; their cheeks turning red and their voices growing tired from their efforts; a change had taken place. Daenerys had noticed first, and Arya soon afterwards, that somewhere in the midst of the inherited hatred that had burned like wildfire in their words and in their eyes; they had ceased to be the Dragon Queen and her servant who was No one. They had become Daenerys Targaryen and Arya Stark; shedding their masks and speaking as their true, unhidden selves.

Daenerys was accustomed to the transition. It happened each time she shed her tokar, or unwound the braids from her hair.

Arya was not accustomed to it. It had not happened since her childhood.

Their eyes had met. Grey and violet, ice and fire, both of them equally scalding.

'Who are you?' Daenerys had asked.

'I am Arya, of the House Stark,' the girl had spat out; her eyes like her father's and her face pale and frightened; and for the first time since the day that they had met, Daenerys had truly believed her.

Dany had called it a victory for weeks afterwards. Tyrion had deemed that too optimistic a term. He had known precious little about the Faceless Men at the time, but he had known that their training was permanent. It could not be reversed, and it could not be forgotten; and he did not believe that Daenerys had completely achieved either of those things. True, the girl had seemed more…alive after that afternoon; more…human…in face and voice and movement and form… less like a ghost and more like a girl…but in essentials, she had hardly charged at all; remaining as composed and tranquil as the day that she had come among them. The only truly significant change in her disposition had been a change in the nature of that tranquillity. It had become pleasant rather than disturbing. Characteristic. Normal.

And there was her anger, of course. On the rare occasions that that surfaced; it was sufficient to frighten entire armies into submission.

'Who's to say she hasn't just… invented a personality to get you to leave her alone?' Tyrion had ventured one night.

'I know that she's come back,' Dany had stubbornly insisted, 'I know it.'

'I don't trust her.'

'That's not saying much, Tyrion. You don't trust anyone.'

'I trust you.'

'Can I have that in writing?'

Tyrion had stared at her for a long moment, and had felt a light inside him go out; falling down, down, down into the night and the dark to be submerged and drowned, without a struggle and without protest. Because in that moment, Dany had given him the means by which they would take back the Seven Kingdoms.

She had also given him the way that she would fade from him.

Trust embodied in writing. Trust for convenience, and for conquest. Trust for necessity. And words. Words with nothing behind them, but words that will shape the world.

Not long afterwards, they had left for Westeros with a plan; a plan that Tyrion had hated and despised even though he had thought of it himself; and as their armies had unfurled Targaryen banners across land and sea while the colossal wings of the dragons spread out across the skies, the plan – brilliant, efficient and cruel – had lodged like a sheet of glass between him and Dany, pulling them apart each time they looked at each other. And for almost every second of that entire thrice-damned voyage, Tyrion had tried to think of another way; knowing all the while that another way didn't exist.

They had found Aegon-who-was-no-Targaryen fighting a war in the Stormlands, which he had conquered soon after his landing, but which were now so overrun with rebel Storm lords, Baratheon sympathisers and the ever-present Lannister armies that the myriad distractions and entertainment to be found there could very well last for years. Nevertheless, he had graciously agreed to stop fighting for a few hours to meet them (of course he had), and when the true queen had met the false king in a pavilion beneath the walls of Storm's End, Daenerys and Aegon had sat examining each other without words for what had felt like an eternity; their faces blank and expressionless, revealing nothing. Their eyes had travelled in steady circles about each other's faces; moving from similarity to similarity, but showing no sign of being moved by them, and when Aegon's gaze had shifted for the tiniest particle of a second to where Arya had stood silent at Daenerys' shoulder; Tyrion had not known if he should rejoice, or curse.

Ser Barristan said she would be a distraction.

'Why not leave this all behind and simply march on the capital?' Daenerys had somewhat coolly enquired, 'you could rot away in the Stormlands for years if you're not careful.'

'I have conquered these lands and I will hold them,' Aegon had replied, the stubbornness in his voice like steel, 'if I cannot hold them, then I will never hold King's Landing.'

Daenerys had smiled at Aegon, then. Rather sweetly, in fact, and for a moment, Tyrion had thought that she believed in him.

But her proposal of marriage, when it came, had been regal and cold; just as Tyrion had told her that it should be; just the opposite of what she had screamed that it would be when she had thrown him out of her solar on the night he had first suggested it.

'If you can ask this of me then perhaps I should be marrying Aegon instead of you!'

She had slammed the door in his face and had refused to speak to him for three days.

Aegon had sat perfectly still as Daenerys made her case; watching as her eyes glittered, and her hands moved, and her voice rose and fell as she spoke to him of marrying and of joining their two armies; of reuniting Westeros under the Targaryen banner; of restoring it to the rule of the dragons; of taking back what had been stolen from them by the Usurper and his dogs.

Aegon had pretended to be unimpressed, and Tyrion had wanted to kill him for it.

A pity. I used to be rather fond of him.

'What do you want, Daenerys?' Aegon had asked at the close of her discourse; his eyes sharp, intelligent, bright, and cautious.

Dany had smiled disarmingly at the familiarity of address before sitting back in her chair, calling for wine, and dismissing it as Dornish swill when it came. Tyrion had taught her about wine. He had been concerned for her tongue before it had even occurred to him to taste it himself.

'I want the Golden Company,' Dany had replied, 'numbers favour my own army. Skill favours yours. You have fine men, but you do not have enough of them. I can provide the numbers you lack.'

'You have dragons,' Aegon had smirked.

'I do not intend to rule over a kingdom of ashes,' Daenerys had smirked back.

'You may take Westeros without reducing it to ashes. Parading the dragons before the gates of every city you come to should prove more effective at inducing surrender than a year's worth of negotiations.'

'I would prefer not to take that chance. Somehow, somewhere, there is always some idiot trying to be a hero.'

'I hope that heroism will regain your better opinion someday.'

'And we were getting along so well.'

Aegon had looked at Dany for a long moment, trusting her as little as she trusted him. Comely, and closer to her age, and tall.

'What if I refuse?' he had asked.

Daenerys had smiled at him.

'You won't, though, will you?'

Aegon had pretended to think about it; even going so far as to ask for time to consult his advisors. They had 'consulted' for an entire week. But in the end, he had accepted, as any sane man would have done, and when a septon had been summoned to perform the marriage, Tyrion had felt curiously empty; his own cleverness failing to provide the comfort that it usually did.

The scheme is a good one. Marry him. Use his men. Win the throne. Kill him. It's very simple.

So why does it feel so fucking complicated?

The ship gave a lurch; making Tyrion's stomach churn and his head swim in protest. They had traded positions now; Arya facing the sea and Tyrion standing with his back to it, as though looking back towards Braavos and away from Westeros would stop him from remembering the conquest and what they had done; what he had done. But he did remember.

When the battles had begun, and Daenerys and Aegon had been spending most of their time arguing about when to deploy the dragons and why; the command of Tommen's armies had fallen to Tyrion's brother Jaime; and he had given them hell until the bitter end. The long, miserable bloodbath of a siege at King's Landing, in which dragon warfare had only been employed on the final day, had been the first instance of it; and had gained the dragon armies nothing but the knowledge that Tommen and Cersei were not in the capital at all; and that the end of the war had somehow become its true beginning. Jaime, the gods only knew how, had managed to move Tommen and Cersei to Casterly Rock without a single spy or little bird having the slightest notion of what he had done; and when the dragon armies had finally arrived at the Rock, Jaime's men had fought like fucking demons; like the stuff that songs should be made of.

But it hadn't mattered, of course. Aegon had deployed all three dragons despite Daenerys' pleas for reason; thousands of men had been burned alive; and when the keep had finally been breached, the conquerors had found both Tommen and Cersei dead in the Golden Gallery; a vial of poison clutched in the latter's hand.

My sweet fucking bitch of a sister, Tyrion thought, she probably called it mercy.

He still ground his teeth at the thought that he hadn't been able to kill her himself. He still wept at the thought that they hadn't been able to save Tommen. And he still felt madness stirring in his mind at the memory of Jaime screaming through the thirty days and nights of torture it had taken to make him swear allegiance. Tyrion had stood outside that fucking door for almost all of that time, listening in horror to the constant, interminable insistence that Jaime swear, and the constant, painfully typical response of 'Fuck yourself, you fucking dragon spawn.' Every day, he had demanded to speak to Jaime, and every day he had been refused, and by the time two weeks had passed, he had started to pray that they would simply put Jaime out of his misery and kill him; knowing all the while that they wouldn't. Living lions were infinitely more useful than dead ones, even if they were maimed.

'Let me see him and you'll have your fucking allegiance,' Tyrion had said, 'just let me talk to him for five minutes.'

But no matter how much he had insisted, demanded, or begged, Daenerys and Aegon had unfailingly, unflinchingly refused him; the former out of compassion, the latter out of spite.

Aegon had known by then, of course; of the unholy liaison between his wife and the deformed, depraved demon monkey. Tyrion might even have felt ashamed of himself had he thought for one second that Aegon really loved her.

All the same, Tyrion had been surprised at the speed with which he had been packed off to Braavos with Arya to commence the business of kissing the Iron Bank's arse. Linguists, Aegon had called the pair of them; one speaking the language of money, the other speaking the language and culture of the hundred islands. Together they could not possibly fail to convince the Iron Bank that no matter what Cersei had told them, and no matter how many times she had done so, the Targaryens would see to it that the Braavosi got their gold back. They just couldn't do so immediately.

It was that precise issue that had taken a year to resolve.

Tyrion had hated every moment of that year in Braavos. The blistering heat; the stink of the waterways after the rain; the cold beauty of the courtesans and the subsequent re-emergence of his old habits; the quality of the wine; the unaccountable aggression and humourlessness of every banker and stock broker they dealt with; the constant smell of fish; the harshness of the language; and all the problems that inevitably emerged from being clustered together at all hours of the day and night with a beautiful girl that he couldn't stop himself from wanting to fuck. And all the while Daenerys was in his mind; the memory of her, the touch of her, the smell of her hair, the sound of her voice at night…

And now that I'll finally see her again, I'm afraid, Tyrion thought, shuddering as the gulls shrieked overhead, I'm staring back towards Braavos and wishing we were going there instead.

There was a shout from the crow's nest and a tensing-up beside him, and Arya was tugging urgently on the sleeve of his jerkin; a little harder than was necessary.

'Tyrion,' she said, 'we've arrived.'

He turned to face the sea. It was still the colour of blue porcelain. But far away in the distance was a castle above a sea of fog; and its towers were as red as blood.