A Dance with Dragons

by George R. R. Martin

  One of those was occupied by a dwarf. Clean-shaved and pink-cheeked, with a mop of chestnut hair, a heavy brow, and a squashed nose, he perched on a high stool with a wooden spoon in hand, contemplating a bowl of purplish gruel with red-rimmed eyes. Ugly little bastard, Tyrion thought.

  The other dwarf felt his stare. When he raised his head and saw Tyrion, the spoon slipped from his hand.

  “He saw me,” Tyrion warned Mormont.

  “What of it?”

  “He knows me. Who I am.”

  “Should I stuff you in a sack, so no one will see you?” The knight touched the hilt of his longsword. “If he means to try and take you, he is welcome to try.”

  Welcome to die, you mean, thought Tyrion. What threat could he pose to a big man like you? He is only a dwarf.

  Ser Jorah claimed a table in a quiet corner and ordered food and drink. They broke their fast with warm soft flatbread, pink fish roe, honey sausage, and fried locusts, washed down with a bittersweet black ale. Tyrion ate like a man half-starved. “You have a healthy appetite this morning,” the knight observed.

  “I’ve heard the food in hell is wretched.” Tyrion glanced at the door, where a man had just come in: tall and stooped, his pointed beard dyed a splotchy purple. Some Tyroshi trader. A gust of sound came with him from outside; the cries of gulls, a woman’s laughter, the voices of the fishmongers. For half a heartbeat he thought he glimpsed Illyrio Mopatis, but it was only one of those white dwarf elephants passing the front door.

  Mormont spread some fish roe across a slice of flatbread and took a bite. “Are you expecting someone?”

  Tyrion shrugged. “You never know who the wind might blow in. My one true love, my father’s ghost, a duck.” He popped a locust into his mouth and crunched it. “Not bad. For a bug.”

  “Last night the talk here was all of Westeros. Some exiled lord has hired the Golden Company to win back his lands for him. Half the captains in Volantis are racing upriver to Volon Therys to offer him their ships.”

  Tyrion had just swallowed another locust. He almost choked on it. Is he mocking me? How much could he know of Griff and Aegon? “Bugger,” he said. “I meant to hire the Golden Company myself, to win me Casterly Rock.” Could this be some ploy of Griff’s, false reports deliberately spread? Unless… Could the pretty princeling have swallowed the bait? Turned them west instead of east, abandoning his hopes of wedding Queen Daenerys? Abandoning the dragons… would Griff allow that? “I’ll gladly hire you as well, ser. My father’s seat is mine by rights. Swear me your sword, and once I win it back I’ll drown you in gold.”

  “I saw a man drowned in gold once. It was not a pretty sight. If you ever get my sword, it will be through your bowels.”

  “A sure cure for constipation,” said Tyrion. “Just ask my father.” He reached for his tankard and took a slow swallow, to help conceal whatever might be showing on his face. It had to be a stratagem, designed to lull Volantene suspicions. Get the men aboard with this false pretext and seize the ships when the fleet is out to sea. Is that Griff’s plan? It might work. The Golden Company was ten thousand strong, seasoned and disciplined. None of them seamen, though. Griff will need to keep a sword at every throat, and should they come on Slaver’s Bay and need to fight…

  The serving girl returned. “The widow will see you next, noble ser. Have you brought a gift for her?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” Ser Jorah slipped a coin into the girl’s palm and sent her on her way.

  Tyrion frowned. “Whose widow is this?”

  “The widow of the waterfront. East of the Rhoyne they still call her Vogarro’s whore, though never to her face.”

  The dwarf was not enlightened. “And Vogarro was…?”

  “An elephant, seven times a triarch, very rich, a power on the docks. Whilst other men built the ships and sailed them, he built piers and storehouses, brokered cargoes, changed money, insured shipowners against the hazards of the sea. He dealt in slaves as well. When he grew besotted with one of them, a bedslave trained at Yunkai in the way of seven sighs, it was a great scandal… and a greater scandal when he freed her and took her for his wife. After he died, she carried on his ventures. No freedman may dwell within the Black Wall, so she was compelled to sell Vogarro’s manse. She took up residence at the Merchant’s House. That was thirty-two years ago, and she remains here to this day. That’s her behind you, back by the courtyard, holding court at her customary table. No, don’t look. There’s someone with her now. When he’s done, it will be our turn.”

  “And this old harridan will help you how?”

  Ser Jorah stood. “Watch and see. He’s leaving.”

  Tyrion hopped down off his chair with a rattle of iron. This should be enlightening.

  There was something vulpine about the way the woman sat in her corner by the courtyard, something reptilian about her eyes. Her white hair was so thin that the pink of her scalp showed through. Under one eye she still bore faint scars where a knife had cut away her tears. The remnants of her morning meal littered the table—sardine heads, olive pits, chunks of flatbread. Tyrion did not fail to note how well chosen her “customary table” was; solid stone at her back, a leafy alcove to one side for entrances and exits, a perfect view of the inn’s front door, yet so steeped in shadow that she herself was nigh invisible.

  The sight of him made the old woman smile. “A dwarf,” she purred, in a voice as sinister as it was soft. She spoke the Common Tongue with only a trace of accent. “Volantis has been overrun with dwarfs of late, it seems. Does this one do tricks?”

  Yes, Tyrion wanted to say. Give me a crossbow, and I’ll show you my favorite. “No,” Ser Jorah answered.

  “A pity. I once had a monkey who could perform all sorts of clever tricks. Your dwarf reminds me of him. Is he a gift?”

  “No. I brought you these.” Ser Jorah produced his pair of gloves, and slapped them down on the table beside the other gifts the widow had received this morning: a silver goblet, an ornate fan carved of jade leaves so thin they were translucent, and an ancient bronze dagger marked with runes. Beside such treasures the gloves looked cheap and tawdry.

  “Gloves for my poor old wrinkled hands. How nice.” The widow made no move to touch them.

  “I bought them on the Long Bridge.”

  “A man can buy most anything on the Long Bridge. Gloves, slaves, monkeys.” The years had bent her spine and put a crone’s hump upon her back, but the widow’s eyes were bright and black. “Now tell this old widow how she may be of service to you.”

  “We need swift passage to Meereen.”

  One word. Tyrion Lannister’s world turned upside down.

  One word. Meereen. Or had he misheard?

  One word. Meereen, he said Meereen, he’s taking me to Meereen. Meereen meant life. Or hope for life, at least.

  “Why come to me?” the widow said. “I own no ships.”

  “You have many captains in your debt.”

  Deliver me to the queen, he says. Aye, but which queen? He isn’t selling me to Cersei. He’s giving me to Daenerys Targaryen. That’s why he hasn’t hacked my head off. We’re going east, and Griff and his prince are going west, the bloody fools.

  Oh, it was all too much. Plots within plots, but all roads lead down the dragon’s gullet. A guffaw burst from his lips, and suddenly Tyrion could not stop laughing.

  “Your dwarf is having a fit,” the widow observed.

  “My dwarf will be quiet, or I’ll see him gagged.”

  Tyrion covered his mouth with his hands. Meereen!

  The widow of the waterfront decided to ignore him. “Shall we have a drink?” she asked. Dust motes floated in the air as a serving girl filled two green glass cups for Ser Jorah and the widow. Tyrion’s throat was dry, but no cup was poured for him. The widow took a sip, rolled the wine round her mouth, swallowed. “All the other exiles are sailing west, or so these old ears have heard. And all those captains in my debt are falling over one another to take them there and leach a l
ittle gold from the coffers of the Golden Company. Our noble triarchs have pledged a dozen warships to the cause, to see the fleet safely as far as the Stepstones. Even old Doniphos has given his assent. Such a glorious adventure. And yet you would go the other way, ser.”

  “My business is in the east.”

  “And what business is that, I wonder? Not slaves, the silver queen has put an end to that. She has closed the fighting pits as well, so it cannot be a taste for blood. What else could Meereen offer to a Westerosi knight? Bricks? Olives? Dragons? Ah, there it is.” The old woman’s smile turned feral. “I have heard it said that the silver queen feeds them with the flesh of infants while she herself bathes in the blood of virgin girls and takes a different lover every night.”

  Ser Jorah’s mouth had hardened. “The Yunkai’i are pouring poison in your ears. My lady should not believe such filth.”

  “I am no lady, but even Vogarro’s whore knows the taste of falsehood. This much is true, though… the dragon queen has enemies… Yunkai, New Ghis, Tolos, Qarth… aye, and Volantis, soon enough. You would travel to Meereen? Just wait a while, ser. Swords will be wanted soon enough, when the warships bend their oars eastward to bring down the silver queen. Tigers love to bare their claws, and even elephants will kill if threatened. Malaquo hungers for a taste of glory, and Nyessos owes much of his wealth to the slave trade. Let Alios or Parquello or Belicho gain the triarchy, and the fleets will sail.”

  Ser Jorah scowled. “If Doniphos is returned…”

  “Vogarro will be returned first, and my sweet lord has been dead these thirty years.”

  Behind them, some sailor was bellowing loudly. “They call this ale? Fuck. A monkey could piss better ale.”

  “And you would drink it,” another voice replied.

  Tyrion twisted around for a look, hoping against hope that it was Duck and Haldon he was hearing. Instead he saw two strangers… and the dwarf, who was standing a few feet away staring at him intently. He seemed somehow familiar.

  The widow sipped daintily at her wine. “Some of the first elephants were women,” she said, “the ones who brought the tigers down and ended the old wars. Trianna was returned four times. That was three hundred years ago, alas. Volantis has had no female triarch since, though some women have the vote. Women of good birth who dwell in ancient palaces behind the Black Walls, not creatures such as me. The Old Blood will have their dogs and children voting before any freedman. No, it will be Belicho, or perhaps Alios, but either way it will be war. Or so they think.”

  “And what do you think?” Ser Jorah asked.

  Good, thought Tyrion. The right question. “Oh, I think it will be war as well, but not the war they want.” The old woman leaned forward, her black eyes gleaming. “I think that red R’hllor has more worshipers in this city than all the other gods together. Have you heard Benerro preach?”

  “Last night.”

  “Benerro can see the morrow in his flames,” the widow said. “Triarch Malaquo tried to hire the Golden Company, did you know? He meant to clean out the red temple and put Benerro to the sword. He dare not use tiger 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.

  “As you say.” Tyrion grinned. “If I were Volantene, and free, and had the blood, you’d have my vote for triarch, my lady.”

  “I am no lady,” the widow replied, “just Vogarro’s whore. You want to be gone from here before the tigers come. Should you reach your queen, give her a message from the slaves of Old Volantis.” She touched the faded scar upon her wrinkled cheek, where her tears had been cut away. “Tell her we are waiting. Tell her to come soon.”

  JON

  When he heard the order, Ser Alliser’s mouth twisted into a semblance of a smile, but his eyes remained as cold and hard as flint. “So the bastard boy sends me out to die.”

  “Die,” cried Mormont’s raven. “Die, die, die.”

  You are not helping. Jon swatted the bird away. “The bastard boy is sending you out to range. To find our foes and kill them if need be. You are skilled with a blade. You were master-at-arms, here and at Eastwatch.”

  Thorne touched the hilt of his longsword. “Aye. I have squandered a third of my life trying to teach the rudiments of swordplay to churls, muttonheads, and knaves. Small good that will do me in those woods.”

  “Dywen will be with you, and another seasoned ranger.”

  “We’ll learn you what you need t’ know, ser,” Dywen told Thorne, cackling. “Teach you how t’ wipe your highborn arse with leaves, just like a proper ranger.”

  Kedge Whiteye laughed at that, and Black Jack Bulwer spat. Ser Alliser only said, “You would like me to refuse. Then you could hack off my head, same as you did for Slynt. I’ll not give you that pleasure, bastard. You’d best pray that it’s a wildling blade that kills me, though. The ones the Others kill don’t stay dead… and they remember. I’m coming back, Lord Snow.”

  “I pray you do.” Jon would never count Ser Alliser Thorne amongst his friends, but he was still a brother. No one ever said you had to like your brothers.

  It was no easy thing to send men into the wild, knowing that the chances were good that they might never return. They are all seasoned men, Jon told himself… but his uncle Benjen and his rangers had been seasoned men as well, and the haunted forest had swallowed them up without a trace. When two of them finally came straggling back to the Wall, it had been as wights. Not for the first time, or the last, Jon Snow found himself wondering what had become of Benjen Stark. Perhaps the rangers will come upon some sign of them, he told himself, never truly believing it.

  Dywen would lead one ranging, Black Jack Bulwer and Kedge Whiteye the other two. They at least were eager for the duty. “Feels good to have a horse under me again,” Dywen said at the gate, sucking on his wooden teeth. “Begging your pardon, m’lord, but we were all o’ us getting splinters up our arses from sitting about.” No man in Castle Black knew the woods as well as Dywen did, the trees and streams, the plants that could be eaten, the ways of predator and prey. Thorne is in better hands than he deserves.

  Jon watched the riders go from atop the Wall—three parties, each of three