A Dance with Dragons

cloaks. Half of them worship the Lord of Light as well. Oh, these are dire days in Old Volantis, even for wrinkled old widows. But not half so dire as in Meereen, I think. So tell me, ser… why do you seek the silver queen?”

“That is my concern. I can pay for our passage and pay well. I have the silver.”

Fool, thought Tyrion. It’s not coin she wants, it’s respect. Haven’t you heard a word she’s said? He glanced back over his shoulder again. The dwarf had moved closer to their table. And he seemed to have a knife in his hand. The hairs on the back of Tyrion’s neck began to prickle.

“Keep your silver. I have gold. And spare me your black looks, ser. I am too old to be frightened of a scowl. You are a hard man, I see, and no doubt skilled with that long sword at your side, but this is my realm. Let me crook a finger and you may find yourself traveling to Meereen chained to an oar in the belly of a galley.” She lifted her jade fan and opened it. There was a rustle of leaves, and a man slid from the overgrown archway to her left. His face was a mass of scars, and in one hand he held a sword, short and heavy as a cleaver. “Seek the widow of the waterfront, someone told you, but they should have also warned you, beware the widow’s sons. It is such a sweet morning, though, I shall ask again. Why would you seek Daenerys Targaryen, whom half the world wants dead?”

Jorah Mormont’s face was dark with anger, but he answered. “To serve her. Defend her. Die for her, if need be.”

That made the widow laugh. “You want to rescue her, is that the way of it? From more enemies than I can name, with swords beyond count… this is what you’d have the poor widow believe? That you are a true and chivalrous Westerosi knight crossing half the world to come to the aid of this… well, she is no maiden, though she may still be fair.” She laughed again. “Do you think your dwarf will please her? Will she bathe in his blood, do you think, or content herself with striking off his head?”

Ser Jorah hesitated. “The dwarf is—”

“—I know who the dwarf is, and what he is.” Her black eyes turned to Tyrion, hard as stone. “Kinslayer, kingslayer, murderer, turncloak. Lannister.” She made the last a curse. “What do you plan to offer the dragon queen, little man?”

My hate, Tyrion wanted to say. Instead he spread his hands as far as the fetters would allow. “Whatever she would have of me. Sage counsel, savage wit, a bit of tumbling. My cock, if she desires it. My tongue, if she does not. I will lead her armies or rub her feet, as she desires. And the only reward I ask is I might be allowed to rape and kill my sister.”

That brought the smile back to the old woman’s face. “This one at least is honest,” she announced, “but you, ser… I have known a dozen Westerosi knights and a thousand adventurers of the same ilk, but none so pure as you would paint yourself. Men are beasts, selfish and brutal. However gentle the words, there are always darker motives underneath. I do not trust you, ser.” She flicked them off with her fan, as if they were no more than flies buzzing about her head. “If you want to get to Meereen, swim. I have no help to give you.”

Then seven hells broke out at once.

Ser Jorah started to rise, the widow snapped her fan closed, her scarred man slid out of the shadows… and behind them a girl screamed. Tyrion spun just in time to see the dwarf rushing toward him. She’s a girl, he realized all at once, a girl dressed up in man’s clothes. And she means to gut me with that knife.

For half a heartbeat Ser Jorah, the widow, and the scarred man stood still as stone. Idlers watched from nearby tables, sipping ale and wine, but no one moved to interfere. Tyrion had to move both hands at once, but his chains had just enough give for him to reach the flagon on the table. He closed his fist around it, spun, dashed its contents into the face of the charging dwarf girl, then threw himself to one side to avoid her knife. The flagon shattered underneath him as the floor came up to smack him in the head. Then the girl was on him once again. Tyrion rolled on one side as she buried the knife blade in the floorboards, yanked it free, raised it again…

… and suddenly she was rising off the floor, legs kicking wildly as she struggled in Ser Jorah’s grasp. “No!” she wailed, in the Common Tongue of Westeros. “Let go!” Tyrion heard her tunic rip as she fought to free herself.

Mormont had her by the collar with one hand. With the other he wrenched the dagger from her grasp. “Enough.”

The landlord made his appearance then, a cudgel in his hand. When he saw the broken flagon, he uttered a blistering curse and demanded to know what had happened here. “Dwarf fight,” replied the Tyroshi with the purple beard, chuckling.

Tyrion blinked up at the dripping girl twisting in the air. “Why?” he demanded. “What did I ever do to you?”

“They killed him.” All the fight went out of her at that. She hung limply in Mormont’s grasp as her eyes filled with tears. “My brother. They took him and they killed him.”

“Who killed him?” asked Mormont.

“Sailors. Sailors from the Seven Kingdoms. There were five of them, drunk. They saw us jousting in the square and followed us. When they realized I was a girl they let me go, but they took my brother and killed him. They cut his head off.”

Tyrion felt a sudden shock of recognition. They saw us jousting in the square. He knew who the girl was then. “Did you ride the pig?” he asked her. “Or the dog?”

“The dog,” she sobbed. “Oppo always rode the pig.”

The dwarfs from Joffrey’s wedding. It was their show that had started all the trouble that night. How strange, to encounter them again half a world away. Though perhaps not so strange as that. If they had half the wits of their pig, they would have fled King’s Landing the night Joff died, before Cersei could assign them some share of blame in her son’s death. “Let her down, ser,” he told Ser Jorah Mormont. “She won’t do us any harm.”

Ser Jorah dumped the dwarf girl on the floor. “I am sorry for your brother… but we had no part in his murder.”

“He did.” The girl pushed herself to her knees, clutching her torn, wine-drenched tunic to small, pale breasts. “It was him they wanted. They thought Oppo was him.” The girl was weeping, begging for help from anyone who would listen. “He should die, the way my poor brother died. Please. Someone help me. Someone kill him.” The landlord seized her roughly by one arm and wrenched her back to her feet, shouting in Volantene, demanding to know who was going to pay for this damage.

The widow of the waterfront gave Mormont a cool look. “Knights defend the weak and protect the innocent, they say. And I am the fairest maid in all Volantis.” Her laugh was full of scorn. “What do they call you, child?”

“Penny.”

The old woman called out to the landlord in the tongue of Old Volantis. Tyrion knew enough to understand that she was telling him to take the dwarf girl up to her rooms, give her wine, and find some clothes for her to wear.

When they were gone, the widow studied Tyrion, her black eyes shining. “Monsters should be larger, it seems to me. You are worth a lordship back in Westeros, little man. Here, I fear, your worth is somewhat less. But I think I had best help you after all. Volantis is no safe place for dwarfs, it seems.”

“You are too kind.” Tyrion gave her his sweetest smile. “Perhaps you would remove these charming iron bracelets as well? This monster has but half a nose, and it itches most abominably. The chains are too short for me to scratch it. I’ll make you a gift of them, and gladly.”

“How generous. But I have worn iron in my time, and now I find that I prefer gold and silver. And sad to say, this is Volantis, where fetters and chains are cheaper than day-old bread and it is forbidden to help a slave escape.”

“I’m no slave.”

“Every man ever taken by slavers sings that same sad song. I dare not help you… here.” She leaned forward again. “Two days from now, the cog Selaesori Qhoran will set sail for Qarth by way of New Ghis, carrying tin and iron, bales of wool and lace, fifty Myrish carpets, a corpse pickled in brine, twenty jars of dragon peppers, and a red priest. Be on her when she sails.”

“We will,” said Tyrion, “and thank you.”

Ser Jorah frowned. “Qarth is not our destination.”

“She will never reach Qarth. Benerro has seen it in his fires.” The crone smiled a vulpine smile.