He had been staring out at the Yunkish camp all day. The six trebuchets the slavers had raised were by far the most striking feature of Yunkai's efforts, and they were as oversized as they were impractical. And named by fools, Tyrion added. The Ghost of Astapor, when these slaving cities wouldn't shit to save one another. The Harpy's Daughter…which would just be another harpy, no? Dragonbreaker, as if a knot of hides and wood flinging corpses would break so much as the Black Dread's skull. Mazdhan's Fist, no doubt named for some long-dead hero. The Wicked Sister, well, I know a thing or two about wicked sisters and this one has neither tits nor arse to flaunt. That left the Harridan, the largest of the lot. Though no less wooden than the others. Why the slavers felt the trebuchets gave them any edge was a mystery to Tyrion, though from what he'd seen thus far of Yunkish efforts, perhaps the yellow lords were simply that stupid. That stupidity, evidenced over and over, gave Tyrion the distinct impression that rescuing the queen's hostages was not only possible, but quite easily accomplished. Oh, and Hizdahr's kin, Tyrion amended. Whom the Yunkishmen might bleed themselves just to lay another fault at the feet of the queen. The House of Loraq was Meerenese, after all. Even if he had blood ties to Yunkai, that would hardly be enough to persuade the other yellow lords to stay their blades. It wouldn't in Westeros, and shitpit though it is, it still holds men's lives dearer than this desert of blood and woe. He wrestled with the problem, rather irked he could not puzzle out a workable solution. Come now, Imp. If you can't manage this much, what good will you be across the sea where you can't simply throw Unsullied and Dothraki at every problem to come your way? Above, Viserion landed atop the pyramid proper, fresh from a visit to Daznak's Pit. Rhaegal had gone west, though why was lost on Tyrion. Perhaps he just wanted a breath of fresh air. Sieges stink as much as shit, as do slave cities, and a slave city under siege busily shitting itself to death must offend even a dragon's nose.
"Would my lord take dinner?" a voice called from behind a column.
"A bit of venison perhaps. Water, if it can be found. If not, a weak yellow wine." He forewent calling it by its customary name, but 'slaver's piss' seemed a bit vulgar to say in front of a girl about Myrcella's age. And it tastes just as it sounds, ensuring I'll not swill so much I get drunk. If anything, the taste put dinner in danger of coming back up. But water was put to better use than slaking his thirst, what with the river rife with flux. Another blight I should be glad to leave behind. Though, perhaps it's best to wait until it runs its course before we make for Westeros, else we may find bloody streaks and corpses dotting the countryside from Sunspear to King's Landing.
When Missandei returned with the fare Tyrion requested, she did not leave immediately as seemed to be her wont. The wide, golden eyes remained on him, Tyrion feeling as though someone were looking at him through a maester's Myrish lens.
"Is it the scar?" Tyrion asked.
"Forgive this one, but she has seen slaves take many wounds as punishment for disobedience or insolence. Noses are not lost just on the far side of the world." Tyrion gave a joyless snort. "My lord has spent many hours looking at the Yunkish camp."
"I have."
"Why?"
"Well, sweetling, the queen's worthies need winkling out of the slavers' yellow grasp before we go braining the worthless lot of them."
"As my lord says…but if the hostages require rescue, ought it not just be done?" Tyrion blinked.
"That's what I'm trying to work out how to do."
"How?" Missandei asked. "How else, but to go into the Yunkish camp? No army at all, but a few chosen men who know the way? Go in, release the hostages, and leave before the Wise Masters are any the wiser?" He stared at her. Another girl might look at her feet, but Missandei of Naath just stared with her unnerving eyes. "The Yunkish camp is filled with sellswords and slave soldiers from countless lands. You yourself mentioned that Ser Barristan has experience in…extracting persons, and Ser Jorah did something similar to ensure Meereen would fall to the queen."
"So it is, so I have, and so he did." Tyrion replied, the wheels spinning before he could stop them.
"Nor is Ser Barristan a stranger to travelling in disguise." Missandei added.
"Perhaps not, but he's too old and, though I'm loathe to admit it, too valuable to risk on some ploy of mine." Knowing him, some slave soldier will notice the stick up his knightly arse and stick him while he isn't looking. Mormont was no such man, either in value or in honor. Should he die saving the queen's worthies, well, that may be just as good as having him on hand in Westeros to nanny the Dothraki. "Might you fetch Ser Jorah, my dear? I'd hate for the queen to return to find us still without her hostages." Perhaps I'll get lucky and accomplish yet more. With the dragons visible in the sky over Meereen, the Yunkai'i seemed reluctant to do anything more than lay siege to the city. It was for the defenders to choose when and where to start the bleeding, whether or not the Wise Masters realized it, and Tyrion did not intend to wait until they found their courage. When Missandei reappeared with Mormont in tow, Tyrion thanked her and bid her go tend to Belwas. The look Mormont wore was a northman's surly, prickly brood blended most unattractively with a knight's contempt for those he considered beneath him. And he's hardly handsome to start with. "A northman and a knight. Do forgive me, but I'd never have thought such a mix much use at all in subterfuge."
"A northman, a knight, and many years an exile, dwarf. Life makes of a man what it will." Mormont replied. "You want to send me to my death."
"I want you to needle the thread that is the Yunkish camp, find the queen's hostages, and bring them back. True, if you die that will be one less complication upon our return home, but as I said before, a man the Dothraki respect after a fashion and even speaks their tongue is going to be most useful reining them in." Mormont gave an unamused snort.
"How would I manage that?"
"You managed when it came time to open Meereen's gates to the queen's army."
"I had a sewer to worm through, there were no eyes on us down there. There will be thousands waiting on the Yunkish side of the Skahazadhan."
"Eyes looking up, eyes looking away. For white wings and green above Meereen…and black ones coming off the Dothraki Sea that linger in the mind of every Yunkishman from the lowest battle fodder to their commanders. You would wear the look of a sellsword well and better. No one would look at you once, much less twice."
"And alone, no doubt."
"No less. Less chance of you being noticed and less risked by us."
"That sounds like a good bit more than 'no' less, dwarf." Tyrion started, then bit his tongue to keep from guffawing in Mormont's face.
"You've been too long away from home, Ser Jorah. Northmen aren't the joking kind. Nor the sort to work puns." he said, waddling past Mormont back into the pyramid as though the matter was settled. Tyrion knew he would not refuse. I'm dangling a way to engender the queen's gratitude before him. A blind man could see he'll seize it with both hands.
Mormont did not follow him inside. No doubt gathering his thoughts in that hard northern head of his.
"What happens when the Yunkishmen realize the hostages are gone, my lord?" Selmy asked when Tyrion waddled back into the makeshift council chamber.
"They won't. As soon as we've verified that all of them have been returned to safety, we're going to attack." Mouths dropped open from one end of the table to the other.
"We're nowise near ready, dwarf-"
"Then ready yourselves. Even a man as canny as Mormont is capable of being will need a minute to worm his way into the rotten heart of the Yunkish camp, so there are still a precious few hours left for us to use to our advantage. But a better time will not come. The yellow lords are at their most complacent, their lines a slurry of slave soldiers, fodder, and hirelings from cities no fonder of Yunkai than of Meereen. But for the preservation of slavery, they might be at each other's throats right now. That is no great host outside, but countless pockets of influence grinding against each other even as they seek to reinstate the slave trade. A few swung arakhs, thrust spears, the odd lance of dragonflame and it will crumble." Kandaq was positively tickled at the notion of finally butchering some Yunkishmen, but the men about him seemed less certain. "Grey Worm will hold the Unsullied just within the city gates, to ensure no Yunkish tendril worms its way in. If Ser Jorah manages to return, as I suspect he will, he and the queen's bloodriders will lead the Dothraki. Shavepate, you will lead your Brazen Beasts, the odd clutch of pit fighters…so on and so forth."
"What of me, my lord?" Selmy asked.
"Why, even as clever a clog as I knows you'd be a better fit to conduct this whole affair, Ser Barristan. I'll just wedge myself down a barrel and wait." He looked to the Red Viper, who as was his infuriating wont said nothing. "I've seen you with your blood up, my prince. I know better than to speak for you and yours, and anyhow you're of no use whatever dying on the banks of the Skahazadhan. Best House Martell's presence here goes unnoticed and unremarked upon."
"If the mighty lord of Lannister deems it so, who are we to argue?" Oberyn replied.
"Don't worry, I'm sure there will be abundant opportunities for lunacy on our side of the Narrow Sea. Things to do, a queen to enthrone." And the small matter of your father to cast down, mustn't forget that, my lord, Tyrionthought as he watched the viper's eyes.
He left them to bustle, imagining the pyramid to be nothing more than a great anthill with all its occupants hurriedly going about their tasks. Almost on a whim, he stopped by an Unsullied outside Belwas' sickroom.
"A sheep on the terrace, if you would."
"There is a sheep on the terrace?" the eunuch questioned.
"No. I require that one be brought out." Evidently this one didn't hear of my earlier ploy. Tyrion whiled away the time looking at the script that covered the walls and columns of the room, only leaving off when he heard bleating growing steadily nearer.
"A single sheep is no meal for a dragon." Old Rommo muttered through what teeth remained him.
"No, it isn't. I'm not aiming to feed him, though, and I daresay Viserion will realize that. Hopefully his curiosity will be piqued. A single sheep isn't a call to gorge, but it is a call." Tyrion answered. Or so I hope. Else I may find Viserion irked at having to wing it off the pyramid's apex to humor an addled dwarf. At least Rhaegal has yet to return. He found it hard to much worry about the green dragon. He would return, or he would not. When the time came to set sail for Westeros, the undertaking would not be one missed by keen eyes high awing. Even if he did not return for the battle against the Yunkai'i (unlikely, given Drogon's interest in the blood and noise of Daznak's pit and what was a battle but bloodsport writ large?) the odds he would not come upon a vast fleet heading west over open water were slim to none. He took the rope the old rider held and began to waddle out into the open air. By then night had fallen and the Yunkish lines had become countless lights, some little more than torches and others what looked like roasting fires. One might think the descendants of Ghis of old well learned in the peril poised by dragons overhead. The Wise Masters of Yunkai were anything but in Tyrion's experience, though. All to our advantage. He was still musing on where the best of the Yunkish troops were quartered, the thought that the sellsword companies themselves might actually win out in terms of discipline and seasoning crossing his mind as the haze of heat descended, heavy as a thick blanket. As before, Viserion landed in the queen's pool, the steam rising off the surface at once and filling the terrace with heady tendrils. The dragon's head snaked up, eyes locked on the lone sheep, an unreceptive-sounding rasp rising from his throat. "Here." Tyrion said, a bit high-pitched, but his voice was not so tempting to Viserion as the bleating mutton before him. Fool of a dwarf, he knows you're there, he isn't blind. "We're nearly to it, if it please you." Tyrion said. That made Viserion's head turn, reminding him of the snake he'd seen in Volantis. Somehow I doubt very much a bit of dwarfish wiggling will so entrance him. "We've just to wait until Mormont returns, the hairy, brooding lout. You'd know him if you saw him." Of that Tyrion was certain. He may not have words and names, but he has his eyes and ears and nose. He would know Mormont for one of his mother's pets at a glance. As would the Tattered Prince and Brown Ben Plumm, Tyrion did not doubt. Both would have eyes in the Yunkish camp, and both would know Mormont for who and what he was immediately. Neither is stupid enough to give him up, either. The sight of Mormont would let both captains know that time was short See how I send the queen's dancing bear into the midst of your Yunkish masters, none the wiser their only leverage is being winkled out from under them. The sellswords would never value Yunkish gold over their own hides, never stand fast in the face of dragonfire, and the Yunkishmen alone were the Yunkishmen defeated. Better odds than either the Green Fork or the Blackwater. I could feel no better about all this. That, Tyrion reasoned, is either very good, or very bad.
Missandei did not quail when Tyrion beckoned her over. Not that he'd heard her approach, but then he never did, and she had a habit of following him about. Duly she came forward as he knew she would, Viserion craning his pale neck for a quick glimpse at the newcomer.
"I do not speak High Valyrian well enough to bluster my way through a winesink, let alone make a proper address." Tyrion told her, looking at his hand before he slowly extended it toward the dragon. He stopped less than a foot away, when he could reach no further without joining Viserion in the pool.
"This one guessed as much, Westerosi do not often take to High Valyrian." Tyrion turned away from the pool and its occupant, listening to Viserion breathe.
"I would speak to the Unsullied, with your assistance. Ser Barristan ought be present as well, he's nowhere better to be."
"This one obeys, though there are many Unsullied. To mass them anywhere outside the Great Pyramid would surely be seen by the Harpy's eyes, and by Yunkai's." One and the same, Tyrion thought.
"That doesn't matter, sweetling. Though, you are surely right. Eyes will be elsewhere, or else closed from tiredness and drink. Whoever is lucky enough to spot that the Unsullied are being massed will not get the chance to sell what they know to Yunkai." Missandei nodded and went on her way, rather quicker than perhaps a scribe was called to move. But then, scribes scarcely give orders to assemble. Tyrion spotted Viserion watching him closely, and wondered what particularly was going on behind the dragon's eyes. "I'd ask you to go find Rhaegal, but he's not likely to miss the festivities such as they'll be." Tyrion said. The ivory pupils glinted in recognition of the green dragon's name. "Just be careful with your fire. If all goes well, battle won't be joined for long and the two of you will need do no more than flutter about for the Yunkishmen to gawk at. Those trebuchets will need to go if only to dishearten the enemy, but there's little call to lay waste to everything in sight. At least, from this dwarf's perspective." He heard sandaled feet moving in the corridors within the pyramid, caught sight of the first Unsullied filling the empty area just outside its base. "Well, I've got a bit of a walk ahead of me. Wouldn't want to keep the eunuchs waiting, it isn't like they can stand around playing with their cocks." He began to waddle toward the council chamber, seriously debating whether getting on a feast platter and riding it down the countless steps was worth the ridicule it would earn him. The noise would wake the whole pyramid, he thought, as he turned back toward the pool. It would be a lark to slide into view of the Unsullied and see if any of them can manage a quivering lip. He began to run toward it. There would be the issue of getting back atop the pyramid, but that's a problem for an hour from now. He jumped off the pool's edge, sucked in a breath, curled into himself. And anyhow, I've a better idea.
He hit the water and sank like a stone. When he opened his eyes he found Viserion nearly nose to scar with him, close enough to see his own visage in the dragon's eyes. Perhaps it was the heat of the water or the lack of air, but Tyrion could see himself quite clearly in the twin worlds of gold before him. Being taller would not make me handsome, he thought as his reflections stretched and warped around Viserion's ivory pupils. Nor would being handsome make me any taller. The darkness began to creep into his vision. And either way, I'm still missing a nose. It was hard to move a hand underwater, but Tyrion managed to slide his right palm down Viserion's snout. Would a tall, handsome knight have dared to do so much as approach you? Would a tall, handsome knight's sword be of any use whatever hundreds of feet in the air? Tyrion used his hands to pull himself down Viserion's neck, feeling the body beneath him push up. Tyrion's head broke the surface with his arms clinging to a pale shoulder, breathing even and unhurried despite the fire in his lungs. He pulled himself up purely out of reflex, only noting where he had come to sit once he'd pushed the hair out of his eyes.
"Would a tall, handsome knight be of any use to a little dragon?" he said, measured and calm even as Viserion craned his neck to keep Tyrion in view. "How fortunate for you, I am only a little man." The wings slid up out of the water, golden sails that could carry one to the stars if their owner so chose. They came down, Tyrion's stomach sliding into his boots to crowd his soaked feet as Viserion rose elegantly from the water. Given the heat of Meereen and the heat of the dragon's body beneath him, there was no punch of cold air…until Viserion began to move away from the pyramid. There was nothing to hold the dragon's interest (the sheep had long before fled down the corridor) and so he slid slowly down from on high to glide over the city below. Tyrion could not think of anything but his uncle's words. "The last dragon died a century ago, lad." Yet it was Tygett Lannister years dead while Viserion continued to slowly bank and circle over Meereen. Great men make better fools than small, for they have further ways to fall. The thought of falling did not cross Tyrion's mind until then, but even as the air swept his hair from his eyes he mused blankly on what he'd told Shagga and the other Stone Crows in the Mountains of the Moon. Forgive me, Shagga son of Dolf, he thought as he danced over the city, the pyramids becoming anthills for true, but I think I've found a way to die I prefer. There is wine the world over, whores as well, and who wants to live to eighty, grey and feeble?
When he felt Tyrion turn atop him, Viserion again looked across his body at the dwarf on his back. Tyrion blankly stared at the Unsullied far below, remembering just what he'd planned to do before…things had come up. It occurred to him that he had not the least idea of how to tell Viserion to descend. It occurred to him also that he could not have cared less. How many men across how many ages had looked up with envy at a common sparrow? One's first flight is not a thing to end prematurely. Dark as it was, it stood to reason no one would be able to tell he was up there. No one pointing, no one shouting. A small bit of Tyrion appreciated that much grace. The rest was either struck dumb or screaming as it ran in circles, waving its hands above its head. I might know High Valyrian well as any dragonlord, what good would it do me? Am I to bellow at him and pray he hears? What does a dwarf know of flight a dragon does not, anyhow? Perhaps Viserion could sense Tyrion's desire to land (eventually), or maybe he had done no more than feel the dwarf's balance on his back start to waver. He made for the gap between the Unsullied and the pyramid, sending dust flying as he landed without so much as a bump for Tyrion. The eunuchs neither gaped nor moved, the sand in the air washing over their front rank as though they were statues. Tyrion tried to move his legs and found them totally unresponsive, staring into his lap with so many thoughts in his head he could not tell up from left.
"My lord?" Missandei's voice cut through the pandemonium in his skull. Numbly Tyrion looked up to find the scribe staring at him, Ser Barristan the Bold gaping beside her. "Will you be dismounting?" she asked.
"I can't feel my legs." he replied. Her lip quivered, as if she were fighting the urge to smile or even laugh.
"I doubt anyone is willing to try to help you down, my lord. It would seem you'll be up there until your legs return."
"Oh, no." Tyrion said. After a moment of poking and prodding at his knees, he felt brave enough to attempt sliding off Viserion's back. By pure luck, his feet kept under him and he remained upright, facing the Unsullied. Speak. Talk. Words, he told his tongue.
"I am Tyrion Lannister." he finally choked out, Missandei providing them in High Valyrian to the Unsullied. Tyrion forewent titles, as they meant no more to the queen's soldiers than they did to any Essosi. "My father holds the lion's share of the blame for Her Grace's life spent in exile." The pun was lost on the Unsullied, which was no more than Tyrion expected. "I do not know what is in your hearts, what you are feeling. I dare to guess that every one of you has at one time or another, even just now maybe, has wondered what might have been had the Good Masters of Astapor not made you what you now are. Westeros is a far from perfect land, full of far from perfect people…but slavery is illegal. From the shores of Dorne to the top of the Wall, no man may sell another as if he were chattel." Tyrion stopped for breath. "This is slavery's last gasp although it does not know it, and I'm content as a crow amongst corpses to pop it like the ugly throbbing boil it is. The Yunkai'i think of you as scared little boys with red holes between your legs. Unsullied, just a shiny word the Astapori wrapped you in to multiply your selling price by ten. Were the Good Masters still alive to tell the tale, they might mention to their wise brethren that pain has been tempered from your flesh, fear has been boiled from your minds. In the coming hours, what swords hired by the Yellow City who make it through those of us in the field will find you waiting for them." Again he filled his lungs. "With slavery dead as Old Ghis, know that you will be the last Unsullied anywhere. Should you fall, no others will come along in time to replace you. No boy will have his name stripped from him or be forced to drink of some foul slaver's piss until his flesh is deadened to feeling or any of the rest. You'd do well to make certain the world remembers you. You are the sons of the Mother of Battles, but of the Mother of Dragons as well. Make your mothers proud, and let the Wise Masters and their allies set not a foot into Meereen." Tyrion felt his fingernails digging into his palms as he listened to Missandei finish translating, opening his hands with no little effort. How odd that addressing soldiers should unman me when riding a dragon doesn't. When at last her voice had ceased to echo off the buildings flanking the square, Tyrion spoke again. "Thank you, Missandei of Naath."
"Thank you, my lord." she replied, as though he'd given her more than words for the Unsullied. Then Viserion's wings were extending again and Tyrion was sucking in another breath, the brick that had formed in his belly breaking up into countless grains of sand as the pair of them climbed back up, landing atop the Great Pyramid. The fires of the Yunkish camp were even further down now, even farther away. From this height it could all just be a game of cyvasse,Tyrion mused. He wondered if Myrcella was thinking on the game right now, either musing on some strategy or else trouncing her betrothed. Well, what of it, niece? How best to use a dragon?