"Her Grace will not be pleased to see Ser Jorah returned." Ser Barristan said. Tyrion went to pinch the bridge of his nose, remembered the Blackwater and instead rubbed his temples with his palms. This is not a time for half-measures anyhow. The lid is jumping off the pot so hot is it boiling, and all Barristan the Bold can do is complain that Mormont shouldn't be here.
"How fortunate, then, that she isn't here to see him returned. Anyone who speaks Dothraki as well as the Common Tongue is far too useful just to gut." Tyrion replied. They were crowded around the table in the absent queen's apartments, the battle lines drawn in ink before them. None of the other men voiced an objection to Tyrion's reasoning, though he suspected most were not privy quite as to why the northman had been unceremoniously turned out of the queen's service. Skahaz mo Kandaq led the Brazen Beasts and just wanted to bloody his sword, but Tyrion knew the rest of them were too perceptive to slip in the endless tide of shit that this war for (or against) slavery had become. Ah, what's the harm? I'm here, might as well work some imp magic else I might fall out of practice. Mormont would be put in charge of what was generously called Daenerys Targaryen's khalasar. They're hardly in a position to turn away an able fighter. Grey Worm would lead the Unsullied, of course, but after that things got muddy. The Red Viper isn't going to pick up a spear and form ranks with some freedman. He didn't come all this way to die in a shitpuddle like Meereen. The oily seneschal had been imprisoned despite his protestations, but Tyrion had known men too similar to put much trust in Reznak mo Reznak's words. Dealing with men like Littlefinger and Varys will erode one's ability to trust. At least in simpering perfumed lickspittles. It struck him that he might have the whole thing backward, with Reznak no more than a lamb tossed to the wolves while Kandaq served as Yunkai's eyes and ears within the pyramid, but Oberyn had seen the brutish man send no message nor have words with anyone Tyrion had not heard of. Reznak in turn seemed to have had the ability to slip out of sight as a fish might a grasp. Not the sort I want wandering into and out of council meetings freely. Even if he were not yet turned, he'd surely sell whatever we planned to the Yunkai'i for the right price. It would be no trouble at all to dig up another oily sycophant in Meereen anyhow, if ever we needed one.
Thankfully, Ser Barristan knew better than to blather on about just why Daenerys Targaryen had dismissed the northern knight. Half a wonder, that. Just the sort of hole honorable types can't seem to keep their feet out of. It had been some time since last he woke up with his head pounding from the night before's wine, but Tyrion found the headaches such men caused were remarkably similar. Is that why most people are always drunk?
"We can always throw him off some terrace after we win, but there's an army of slavers and their chattel that need seeing to before you're served your bear pelt, Ser Barristan." Tyrion said. What would you do with it anyhow, dye it white? He turned to Mormont, who looked as surly as ever. A less learned man might take his reticence to show gratitude as an insult, but Tyrion had spent too much time in the company of northmen. At least the hill tribesmen knew how to laugh. "The houses who lost their pyramids to the dragons, have they responded to our overtures?" he asked the Shavepate.
"They're racing to see which of them claims the greater loss, dwarf. I shouldn't think by the end the Pyramid of Uhlez will have had an armory of Valyrian steel stripped bare." Tyrion grinned.
"And Yherizan?"
"A glowering clutch of dragon eggs."
"Humor them…no, we've no way of knowing how soon the queen will return. Though I'm certain your picked men have done an admirable job stringing the noble houses along, I fear they're owed a bit of dwarfish attention at last." Kandaq frowned.
"You're not actually going to pay them, are you?"
"With their own coin. It would do well to advertise that we're not overly concerned with the dragons' behavior, either. So they raised a bit of hell, anyone would on seizing their freedom. Word will pass from those unlucky houses to the rest, and from them into the Yunkish camps. Two dragons ready to start sending fiery lances into their lines at a moment's notice isn't as good as three, but it's better than none."
"That won't be enough to dissuade the Yunkai'i." Ser Barristan said.
"Of course it won't. It's not them I mean to prize open like an oyster." Tyrion replied. "Even if some of the sellswords don't defect to us, I rather suspect their gold-bought loyalty will falter in the face of all we have to bring to bear. That is, if the bloody flux hasn't already been at their courage like a shit-brown rat at a wheel of cheese."
The Shavepate seemed amenable enough to the idea that they would fuck the Yunkai'i eventually, even if it didn't happen right away. Grey Worm could have been a straw dummy in a spiked cap for all the opinions he offered, but the prospect of more skullduggery had Selmy frowning to shame a septa.
"This one would recommend paying the sellswords as well, all four of the larger companies." Tyrion did not bother wondering where the scribe had come from, seemingly knitting herself out of the white silk flowing down Ser Barristan's back.
"Are we to open our veins and our vaults to every band of scum this side of Volantis?" the Shavepate complained. Very curiously to Tyrion, nobody raised a stink at Missandei of Naath's presence.
"Just the big ones. You wish to make amends between Meereen and the sellswords as well as the Wise Masters, yes?" she asked Tyrion, golden eyes blinking guilelessly. She knows I mean to pour discord off the city walls as though it were boiling oil.
"No less, no olive branch can be left un…extended." And never mind that the Meereenese burned all the olive trees. "But how much?"
"As long as each company gets the same amount, to demonstrate the queen's respect for all." Different amounts for each, get them muttering behind each other's backs. Tyrion couldn't help breaking into a grin, the wheels spinning before he could stop them. Not the Windblown or the Second Sons. Gold will not tempt Old Rags nor my pruning plum any further than what I've dangled already has. The Company of the Cat was stronger than the Long Lances as well, they hardly needed further inflating of their own importance…
"Who commands the Long Lances?" Tyrion asked. "The honorable Gylo Rhegan, this one recalls."
"As honorable as spice dust on a privy rag, maybe." Mormont snorted. Tyrion pursed his lips. If only I'd thought of that before I left the Red Keep.
"Better than Bloodbeard, I'd wager. That one wants only…well, blood." The Red Viper sounded as though a laugh was lurking somewhere in his throat.
"Commander, would you be so good as to ready the tribute?" Tyrion asked the Shavepate.
"Why me?" Because this duty shows to Yunkai that you are in the queen's confidence and I would know if you belong there.
"Because you are a nobleman of Meereen. I can hardly do it, no more than any other Westerosi. Barbaric foreigners from the queen's homeland. Nor can Grey Worm or Missandei, the Yunkai'i might take offense at freed slaves giving gold to their pet sellswords."
"Oughtn't they?" Ser Barristan asked finally. Tyrion ignored him.
"Mormont, you rode with the horselords for some years before meeting Her Grace?"
"Aye."
"Would you care to posit how well the lords of Slaver's Bay might speak Dothraki? Or more importantly, understand it?"
"Badly, if at all."
"Ah well, it can't be helped. You'll need to rein in the queen's lot, from what I understand a deal of them are young men eager to earn a Dothraki's notion of glory for themselves." By the grace of all the gods together, Mormont did not show Tyrion the typical clueless northern scowl.
"It won't be easy, you should have seen Rakharo and the other lads the day Belwas killed Oznak zo Pahl."
"Belwas?" Tyrion asked, and Barristan and Mormont looked at each other. Another name I do not know.
The man in the sickbed downstairs was as bald as Varys, and as smooth-cheeked, but that was where their similarities ended. On his feet he would have overtopped the Spider with Tyrion on his shoulders, and his scarred, leathery hide looked as though it had never seen a bath, let alone the sweet scents Varys always smelled of.
"What happened to him?" Tyrion asked.
"I'm told he ate a bowl of poisoned locusts." Mormont said behind him. At the word 'locusts', Belwas groaned.
"Strong Belwas ate too many locusts. Strong Belwas wants horsemeat and onions now." You'll need them if you hope to walk again, my friend.
"What if food plays havoc on whatever remains of your insides?" Tyrion could not help asking. Belwas opened his eyes, saw Tyrion, and groaned again.
"Strong Belwas does not like the small man. He has no nose, and cannot smell cooking horsemeat or onions for Strong Belwas."
"Would you believe I can still smell just fine? What a pity it would have been if I'd missed all the blood, shit, bilge and bile the gods put forth for me to smell on my journey here." Tyrion said, making the man grin.
"The small man is funny, but laughing hurts Strong Belwas too much. The other small men are not funny, they leave Strong Belwas alone." Tyrion shot a look to the far corner of the room, where Oppo and Penny had taken up. Out of sight and out of mind. No one is like to come across them in a eunuch's room.
"One's a girl." Tyrion informed him.
"Small is small." Belwas replied. And how, Tyrion thought darkly. "What happened to the queen? Strong Belwas missed it, Strong Belwas was sick and looking at the ground. Then Strong Belwas woke up with small men in my chamber."
"She rode off on Drogon. We've got about looking for her, but…"
"Horses will not catch Drogon." Belwas sat up. "Strong Belwas will go search. The queen will see Strong Belwas' bald head atop the grass and come."
"Strong Belwas will stay here. He will be needed later." Tyrion said firmly, not encouraged by his ability to push the huge eunuch back into bed with a single hand.
"The small men will bring you horsemeat and onions." And if you die, you die. In a bed away from the fighting and with a belly full of hot food is a better end than many will meet when battle joins...
"Who are you to speak for the queen?" The man's tone was not one that suggested anything Tyrion might say would be heeded. He is insulted to have to deal with a dwarf. Strong Belwas had the right of it. Small is small.
"Her Grace had put me in charge of keeping count of coin, my lord." Tyrion said, putting on an unsure if apologetic air. "I wish only to carry out her instructions as best as I'm able."
"And she gets word to you from beyond the grave, does she?" His voice was a touch louder than perhaps was necessary. As if by shouting it, he can make it true. Tyrion held up his hands.
"Her Grace was not against reimbursement for loss of property, I'm sure if she were here now she would be amenable to seeing your discomfiture addressed."
"Discomfiture?" the man's wife cried shrilly. "A monster has chased us out of our home-"
"-which you were smart enough to flee to a one. The House of Uhlez has endured no loss of life, that much we can all be thankful for, I think." Tyrion said genially, as if paying the subsequent bribes in coin resulting from such misfortune were the height of what he sought to avoid.
"Our noble ancestors-"
"-are surely relieved that the noble and most ancient house of Uhlez endures." Tyrion had not thought so much of himself as to sit on the queen's bench, instead standing at the foot of the stair. As befits a mere bookkeeper. "You may think all lost my lords, my ladies, but there is little to envy about your position." The members of the House of Uhlez stared at him, snorted at him, spat at him. He shrugged. "Why do you fret? Are you worried the pyramid will be open to looters? Who's going to loot a place a dragon dwells within?" He acted as though Viserion's caprice was a passing fancy, more a momentary oddity than anything lasting.
"There's still the matter of our restitution-" the first man began.
"-which I have, I believe, expressed every interest in making on the queen's behalf. Such a thing might take time to assemble, however, and as you yourself have pointed out, you need a roof over your heads in the meantime. If you'd like, I could see about finding you temporary lodging here whilst we wait for Viserion to bore of your pyramid." Tyrion made a point of mentioning the dragon by name whenever he could. He hoped it made him seem less an unknowable terror and more a…knowable one. An interested third party.
"How long until that might happen?" the wife asked, Tyrion feeling sorrier for her harried-looking husband by the moment.
"Who can know a dragon's mind?" Tyrion replied, shrugging. "Were I confident I wouldn't be stabbed in the street, I'd be happy to pay your home a visit myself."
"Everyone knows that Daznak's Pit has been filled with sheep. Should you wish to meet the beast, wait for him there." some wizened uncle or other suggested, sounding as though he hoped Tyrion might do one better and wear a fleece, bleating loudly.
"Alas, I've no food to tempt Viserion with. If you'd rather I leave the pyramid of Uhlez free of the echo of dwarf footsteps, I of course will honor your wishes. We'll just wait for Viserion to move on. Unfortunately, I must call an end to these deliberations, my lords and ladies. I must needs meet with the noble and most ancient House of Yherizan and confer with them in turn." The House of Uhlez, Tyrion was not altogether surprised to see, did not care overmuch to see another family compensated before themselves. Another drop of discord in the pot, better and better.
I did not overstate the House of Uhlez' wisdom in fleeing when Viserion descended upon their pyramid. Tyrion shook himself, unafraid to let his apprehension show. Greyhairs, the badly wounded and children will not hold such against me. More members of the House of Yherizan were of a height with him than not, he saw, with the rest nursing every injury from bruises to burns, though none too severe. Those who stayed to try and fight Rhaegal off are no longer in need of a pyramid. He did not suffer their efforts lightly. He tried to conduct the same farce he'd fed Uhlez, but one of the children, a wide-eyed girl, began to bawl loudly at mention of the dragon's name. Thankfully her mother was on hand to shush her, her father patting her on the back. I wonder if he thinks himself a coward, for not staying to fight with the other young men, brave fools without a worry for wives or children. I wonder, too, if his wife or child gives an iron bob for his bruised pride. In the end, it made Tyrion's stomach turn to act the unconcerned paymaster.
"See if we can't make some provision for the lot, straightaway. Somewhere quiet and out of the way." he told Missandei, the scribe whispering in the ear of a kneeling hawk-masked guardsman. Mercifully the House of Yherizan followed him when he called. No doubt eager to lick their wounds and brood on the insult they imagine House Targaryen has paid them, as well as to get their children away from the noseless dwarf. Next time, let the bloody dragon have your fucking pyramid.
"Now what?" the Shavepate asked, hidden behind a baboon's hooting visage.
"I suppose I'll call on Viserion, as I told the pyramid's former owners." Tyrion replied, leading him and his menagerie of masked guardsmen back upstairs. "It will be quite the subject in Meereen's winesinks, I'm sure. Many in the city will be eager to see what happens."
"No less, betting on how long it is before you come dashing back out with your dwarf's arse on fire."
"Or plummeting off some terrace, the pyramids have plenty of those. A good oddsmaker will account for such." Tyrion said, wondering if he stood to win the queen back whatever coin he might in the end cede to the dragons' hosts.
I oughtn't wait until the city can pack into two small streets to watch, Tyrion decided as he puzzled. It would be too tempting for the Sons of the Harpy to try their own bit of mummery. There was the matter of the bloody flux as well. They call it the pale mare, as if that helps. Better to do whatever I will before the crowds gather and they mount up without knowing it. Only after night had well and truly fallen did Tyrion make his move, descending the great stair within the pyramid wrapped again in rags.
"Will you not take a guard? There are Brazen Beasts aplenty-" Skahaz said as he followed, in a tone that might have been offering.
"Your men are known to be loyal to the queen." Tyrion replied. At least, their masks are. "A boy wrapped in rags will draw no eyes."
"No eyes of men, but what of the mare?" Tyrion cursed himself. And to think the Pyramid of Uhlez looks so close from the terrace. Then Tyrion had an idea.
"One of our guests pointed out that the dragons are fond of mutton." The Shavepate spat, as he most oft did whenever his fellow nobles were mentioned. Though, out of enmity between shavepate and traditional Ghiscari or simply between noble houses, I would give an ear to know.
"More than fond. Daznak's Pit is the only one they visit, I heard one of the men musing it was because sheep made easier prey. They are not yet large enough to hunger for more meat in a sitting."
"Have some brought here." Tyrion swallowed. "More than some." The brutal face before him squashed in confusion before it paled.
"It won't work, my lord." 'My lord', hm? It seems the prospect of a dragon is enough to make even Skahaz mo Kandaq forget that I am a dwarf, at least for a moment. "They will remember when we put them below, we could pack the terraces with sheep and the dragons would not come."
"I'm sure they will remember. But neither the pyramid of Uhlez nor the Pyramid of Yherizan is so large as the Great Pyramid of Meereen, and neither sports a wealth of sheep atop it. They will come or they will not, but you said it yourself. Other avenues must be explored before we risk mounting the pale mare ourselves. If you have such a notion, do share it." The Shavepate said nothing. "The dragons must be brought back on side. If we must give them free reign of the pyramid, if we must pile sheep man-high to placate them, so be it. We will be able to gauge their moods, track their growth…"
"The sheep will be brought." Kandaq finally said. "Do not expect my men to stand in their presence when they come. If they do." Tyrion smirked.
"You are not a stupid man, Skahaz mo Kandaq."
"Drogon's coming to Daznak's pit proved all the lesson I needed, Lord Dwarf. A dragon's patience is best left untried, a line left uncrossed- for a man will try it only once, a man will cross it only once."
The night gave them ample time to work. The Shavepate's command went out and Tyrion waited with him in the bowels of the pyramid.
"Will the Sons of the Harpy molest the men bringing the sheep from the pit?"
"Perhaps, but nobody in Meereen is ignorant of why the dragons visit Daznak's Pit. Even the Sons of the Harpy might think twice before interfering in any plan to keep the dragons placid." It was small comfort, but Tyrion would take it over wandering Meereen's streets himself. "If this should work…" Kandaq trailed off.
"Yes?" Tyrion prompted, though he felt he might have guessed what was going on behind those black eyes.
"Must the queen be found beforehand?" You said it yourself, dwarf. Two dragons is better than none, and if two will do, why wait for three?
"All depends on how the dragons act. That must be determined first, and then we can worry about further negotiations." Bleating somewhere in the distance made Tyrion's stomach turn as if he were already atop the pyramid, waiting for fire from the sky. "Go, Shavepate. See if you can't stop Ser Barristan and Ser Jorah from killing each other. Or if they do, at least get in a bet beforehand." A snort of amusement followed.
"Who will you be backing, dwarf?"
"Selmy is in full plate, Mormont armored only in leather and hair."
"Yes, but Selmy is honorable." Tyrion replied. "Mormont is not." He put a hand on the man's elbow. "Best hurry, neither is much the sort to see the world from the other's point of view. No call to go missing out on a fat pot of gold." Tyrion moved to the terrace, watched the Shavepate's men bring up the first few sheep. Though their faces were covered even at the top of the Great Pyramid, they could not hide their shaking hands, nor how often their heads turned toward the directions of the pyramids of Uhlez and Yherizan. Only when Tyrion could not waddle from one side of the terrace to the other without a sheep getting in the way did he bid them stop. "Wood." he called. "If none can be found, the queen's bench. There will be no further need for it." Though Tyrion half-expected to hear the ebon bench being heaved up to him, the Brazen Beasts turned up a half dozen hidden tapestries depicting the Harpy of Meereen, as well as the one of Ghis of old. They piled them up higher than Tyrion stood tall, a three-foot harpy carved of mahogany nestled in the middle. Wordlessly, Tyrion held out a torch and a horse-masked man lit it. "Go, now." he said, before tossing the torch onto the pile.
Though the sheep cared not at all for the flames nearby, they were content with merely huddling at the edges of the terrace, hemmed in by the stone railings. Thank the gods, else the dragons might guess a mad dwarf is tossing sheep down the side of the pyramid just to see them roll. The fire behind him was hot and bright and all but made his back whine, but Tyrion could only think on the darkness before him. He waded through the bodies until his hands found the railing, hands white as marble as he gripped it. Come, he thought. It would be Viserion first if both were to oblige him, or Viserion alone if only one was feeling up to coming. Even so, we must keep Rhaegal engaged. He may sneer at us from atop the pyramid of Yherizan, but if we do not provide something to muse on, he may simply follow his brother out onto the Dothraki Sea and then there will be nothing and less to be done. To pass the time, he tried to count the fires burning in the Yunkish camps. Many, he finally concluded when he'd lost count. But not so many as to outweigh a dragon. Even a young one. And he waited on two. Were Aegon and his sisters to be the ones awing, these slavers and sellswords would be beaten inside a day. Inside an hour. He had stood before the Black Dread's skull himself, marveled at it with his own eyes. Balerion had been born amidst the fires of Valyria and his fire had burned two centuries after the last of the Freehold's had gone out. One day, Daenerys' three may grow to be so large. His flights of fancy so carried him off that a sudden blanket of hot air nearly had him crying out, turning as the sheep about him began bleating fearfully. The pale body sank gracefully out of the night to land in the queen's wading pool, the water hissing as it boiled against the cream scales. That, Tyrion had not expected. Off to a grand start you are, dwarf, and no mistake. Viserion's head emerged from the water, peered about on his long neck.
"Here." Tyrion croaked. Either Viserion paid the Common Tongue no heed or the sheep were drowning him out, so Tyrion left the railing to stand at water's edge. "Here." he said, louder. Daenerys spoke to them in Valyrian. He bit his lip, then repeated himself in the tongue of the dragonlords, as loudly as he dared. At the sound Viserion turned, the boiling water billowing into steam about him as his golden gaze found Tyrion. The eyes narrowed as the head snaked forward out of the haze, nostrils flaring. "Yes, here." Viserion's head stopped a scant few feet from Tyrion, looking down his snout at him. Well, nice to see your imp magic still works, lord dwarf. Now what?
It was hard. Tyrion's was the sort of Valyrian that would make do in a tavern or brothel and that only just. I spoke the Common Tongue when I told him of the Field of Fire. Perhaps he'll humor me again.
"Pyramids mortared in the blood of slaves do not do your kind justice. The men who built them thought a few stacked stones gave them wings, thought a woman with a bloody scorpion's tail was some favored beast of the gods'. The dragonlords of Valyria proved otherwise. Dragons have come this way before, but not to roost. They cast Ghis down and your mother means to finish what it started. The Valyrians allowed slavery to live. Your mother tore its heart out and ate it, and I mean to spill its bowels on its boots. The pale mare will be the end, the flux carrying off men and women, young and old. There will be no way forward but by one's own strain and sweat, and these 'noblemen' know as much about that as you do about snow." Only at the last word did Viserion's pupils constrict again. A word he does not know. "Count yourself lucky, there's little to recommend being cold and I speak from experience. Though, it still beats this charnel pit." He looked away from Viserion and out over Meereen, now just a collection of tiny lights in the windows and streets. "You do not belong here, no more than your mother does." He turned back to Viserion. "There is a place you do, though. It is the place I come from, the place of your mother's birth as well." He had no way of knowing how much Viserion understood, but if nothing else, the dragon hadn't killed him yet. Or any of the sheep. Had the dragon come for more than a mouthful of mutton? "There's still a bit of a mess on hand to sort out, a pile of shit needing shoveling…but once that's done, we're gone. Back across the sea…" When he pointed west, Viserion followed his finger. "Past oily, muggy Volantis and the endless fighting of the Free Cities. The world has more in it than just the arse-end of Essos, and it's time you learned that. Your brothers as well and your mother most of all." And it is within my power to spur that mule to moving. He heard shouts and blathering from inside, an unsettling golden gaze peering out from behind a column. "Yes?" Tyrion asked.
"Rhaegal has returned. He's landed at the pyramid's apex, my lord." Missandei informed him.
"Waiting for me to shove off, no doubt. Best not try his patience, hmm?" Tyrion said, waddling after her. Hers was not the only golden pair of eyes on him, he did not fail to note.
He walked in on the rest of them having a spirited discussion about how best to proceed. That's holding with the notion that there is a best way to proceed, and we're not all just debating the least muddy fall down the hill.
"Who won?" he asked the Shavepate.
"Your snake and I were arguing odds. You hardly gave me time to get back up here, dwarf." There were others present he did not know, sellsword-types and an ancient-looking Dothraki.
"Well, nice as it would have been to know who might have bet in my favor, I'm afraid there's a few pairs of balls outside our walls in dire need of a good hard kneeing." The sellswords sniggered and the Dothraki cackled, sounding even older than he looked.
"Well and good, but there's still the getting over there to apply said knees." Mormont said from across the table they had gathered around.
"The yellow lords are fools to a one. Why go to them when they will come to us?" one of the sellswords said.
"No less." Tyrion clambered atop the table and stared down at the mess of maps and little wooden bricks and blocks. "Their hirelings are eager for gold and the Yunkish lords themselves for glory. They see this as the sixth Ghiscari war, and they are chomping at the bit to wash away the shame the Freehold visited upon their ancestors. They have forgotten, it seems, what happens when armies without dragons challenge ones that do." Selmy shifted uncomfortably.
"We must find the queen, first and foremost. The Yunkishmen can wait until she returns-"
"Unless you can flap that white cloak of yours and fly after her yourself, Ser Grandfather, there's nothing to be done. Her Grace will return when she will, and no amount of riders sent onto the Dothraki Sea chasing hopes will change that." Skahaz said shortly.
"The Shavepate has it right. The dwarf's foolery will have every man in the Yunkish camp thinking what he stands to gain, not what their alliance does. Every band in their employ from the Volantene sweepings to the Long Lances and the Company of the Cat don't care that they win, just that they're paid. Bloodbeard might want his blade running red by the end of this, but he doesn't love the harpy any more than Gylo Rhegan does." Mormont added.
"It is not for us to declare war in the queen's name-"
"Oh, ought we wait until the Yunkish turn up with bowls of poisoned locusts for the lot of us, then?" Tyrion asked, the chattering dying when the men about saw how he was looking at Ser Barristan Selmy.
"Daenerys did the decent thing by humoring the slavers with a marriage to Loraq. They repaid her generosity with an assassination attempt. I do not plan on giving Yunkai the benefit of the doubt a second time, ser." Tyrion said.
"So we're just to slip out and brain the lot of them while they sleep?" Selmy sounded as though Tyrion suggested they take turns sticking their heads in a full chamber pot.
"Better than true pitched battle and the madness that follows. Imagine the chaos that would ensure if we didn't have two dragons very likely to voice their own opinions on the matter. The aftermath of a battle will be ripe ground and better for the flux to blossom as well. You might not call it 'honorable,' Ser Barristan…but I'm afraid we are not honorable men here." None of the rest protested his words, exactly, though Mormont ground his teeth. Before Selmy could voice his discontent, Tyrion continued. "You might not call it 'honorable,' but then neither was letting Mad Aerys roast whoever displeased him." Selmy's face hardened.
"My vows-"
"Here's for your vows, ser. At least Jaime did something better than listen to men scream." Tyrion said, picking up a bit of parchment and blowing the nose he didn't have into it before he tossed it into a corner of the room. Over the laughter and table-banging, Tyrion bulled on. "You might think yourself too honorable to be party to anything so underhanded, but you didn't exactly ride up to Duskendale's gates and fight the king's captors in single combat, one after the other. Why not, ser? After all, it was the honorable thing to do." Tyrion put aside his lofty air. "Because that would have been stupid. Some crossbowman would have put a quarrel in your teat and you'd have died to the sounds of two armies' laughter ringing in your ears. Instead you donned a patched old cloak and slipped in as a hooded beggar. Scheming and worms and plots, with nary a strand of white silk to be seen. "I wonder, do the rest of the queen's worthies know that you only came to serve Daenerys Targaryen, after Cersei and Joffrey took turns reddening your arse in front of all the court before tossing you out of your own order? Compelled by your honor, you might claim. You're as full of pride and piss as any other knight, Ser Barristan. Your white silk will not seat Daenerys Targaryen upon the Iron Throne. The roughspun, road-stained old cloak slick with mud and mold may, however. If you're just going to take a leaf out of Eddard Stark's book and insist we follow rules we were never going to anyway, to say nothing of the Yunkishmen, feel free to return to your chambers. On my honor as a Lannister, as a dwarf and as a Lannister dwarf, you will not be set aside when we return home. You will sit high in your saddle, white cloak flowing off your back, your legend even more illustrious than when you left. Ser Barristan the Bold, who managed not only to reach Daenerys Targaryen in exile but restore her to her rightful throne. If you're able to swallow your pride, though, and aren't afraid to get your gleaming white gauntlets a little muddy, do stay. What you might accomplish in the coming hours will make Duskendale look like a trip to the market." He waddled back toward where he'd first climbed atop the table, stepping down into the waiting chair. Slowly the rest sat down, looking everything from gleeful in the Shavepate's case to as unreadably sphinxlike as ever, in the Red Viper's. The old knight alone remained standing, wrestling with himself. "We will do Westeros no good tarrying in Slaver's Bay. The sooner we're quit of it, the better." he finally forced out. And Barristan Selmy sat. Now, my dear honorable ser, Tyrionthought, was that quite so fucking hard?