'You…said this was meant to be a smuggler's alcove?' Jaime grinned, 'are you entirely sure that you understand the concept of smuggling, Lady Stark?'

Jaime dodged as Arya aimed a punch at his shoulder, and Tyrion looked murderously out towards Dragonstone; rather wanting to strangle the pair of them and use their entrails for stirrups. In the short time since Jaime's return, Tyrion had seen little else but long looks, shy smiles and lingering touches of fingertips, which was all very pretty, but for fuck's sake, how could they keep fooling about like children when Rhaegal and Viserion were patrolling the skies above Dragonstone and proclaiming to all the world how Daenerys had escaped, and lived; when the sea around the island was crammed with so many ships that it more closely resembled a smiling, sinister shipyard than the ancestral seat of the Dragon Dynasty? Hundreds of ships bobbed cheerfully at anchor, side-by-side and near on top of one other; the air was filled with the shouts of lords, soldiers and smallfolk alike as they passed messages from ship to ship; and a large number of small but enterprising fishing boats were treading a dangerous-looking path through the enormous labyrinth of warships; plying their catch, or their daughters, depending on their scruples.

The fleet was immense; easily twice the number of ships that Stannis Baratheon had commanded at the Battle of the Blackwater. All the great nobility of the South, and most surprisingly, the North, was represented; every ship flying the Targaryen colours beside its House sigil; every ship implying mass desertion from Aegon's cause.

Tyrion didn't understand it. He could easily see why some sections of the Targaryen army – the Unsullied, the Dothraki, the Essosi freedmen – might choose to follow Daenerys rather than Aegon. But this…

Something's happened.

Arya and Jaime had already dismounted, and were setting off across the beach with no apparent destination in mind; their boots making clacking sounds against the pebbles as the pair of them loudly debated some no-doubt-pointless issue with a great deal of fervour; Jaime wincing each time he used his hand to gesticulate; Arya threatening to tie his arm down each time it happened.

Tyrion was spared further contemplation of their childishness by the sudden arrival of a patrol bearing the golden rose of House Tyrell. The soldiers surrounded Arya and Jaime in an appropriately intimidating fashion; their horses snorting and their swords gleaming, before falling back into ranks with what looked like disappointment as Loras Tyrell, resplendent in his white plate, emerged from their midst, commanded them to stand down, hurriedly dismounted, and seized Arya in a bear hug that went on for rather longer than was appropriate.

Tyrion snorted with laughter; both at that and at the blatantly murderous look decorating Jaime's face at the sight.

Perhaps our Ser Loras inclines both ways after all, Tyrion thought, I should ask Varys about it…if I ever see him again.

'Fish in a bag, m'lord?' a small voice piped up, 'it's only two pennies, and they's been cooked and everything.'

Tyrion, still mounted, looked down to see a small boy staring up at him; an islander, no doubt, judging by his scruffy silver hair…and an entrepreneur, judging by the net of anchovies in his left hand and the roll of cheap brown butcher's paper in his right.

'I fear I cannot accept, little lad,' Tyrion replied, 'anchovies make me shit for weeks on end.'

'Me da says the same, m'lord,' the boy enthusiastically agreed, 'that's why I decide to take 'em and cook 'em, and sell 'em in a bag to the soldiers that like 'em. I made me a whole silver stag the other day, and me da let me keep it.'

'He sounds like a very sensible man,' Tyrion observed.

'He is, m'lord,' the boy replied, 'when he ain't drunk as a skunk.'

Tyrion stared at the boy and began to laugh.

'Drunk as a skunk?' he repeated.

'Aye, m'lord,' the boy insisted.

'I didn't know skunks could get drunk,' Tyrion protested.

'Aye, m'lord, they can,' the boy persisted, 'I seen 'em.'

Tyrion cocked an eyebrow at the lad.

'You've seen a drunken skunk?'

'Aye, m'lord. Taverns is full of drunk skunks these days.'

Tyrion chuckled, decided that he liked the boy, and gave him a gold dragon. The lad's eyes were turquoise, and guileless, and when they saw what Tyrion had just put in his hand, they grew to the size of saucers.

'Thank – many thanks, m'lord,' the boy stammered.

'What is your name, lad?' Tyrion asked.

'Daemon, if it please m'lord,' the boy replied.

'Of course it is,' Tyrion remarked; trying hard not to roll his eyes, 'does your father have delusions of grandeur, by any chance?'

Daemon looked blankly at him.

'I couldn't say, m'lord,' he admitted innocently, 'I dunno what a delooshins of grander is.'

'It is of little matter, Daemon,' Tyrion chuckled, 'now tell me. Is the sea around your island usually so crowded?'

'No, m'lord,' Daemon obligingly responded, 'it only get like this after the Mad King burn the wolf lady.'

Tremours erupted in Tyrion's blood and turned his heart to ash.

The Mad King burned…he…she…no, it cannot be –

'No,' Tyrion breathed, 'no, he couldn't have, surely he wouldn't –'

'Aye, m'lord,' Daemon insisted, 'me da tell me that he take a jar of wildfire, that Mad King, and he tip it over 'er 'ead. Wooooooosh!'

Tyrion resisted the urge to vomit, or weep, or laugh, and looked back across the beach to where the patrol stood; guilt paralysing him where he sat.

Loras was speaking softly to Arya, his face white and his hand on her shoulder; and Jaime was crouching down and holding her as she slumped to her knees, and screamed.