TYRION
The first volley thundered off the bricks with a roar – fittingly, he suspected – like a dragon. The second and third followed right on its coattails, searing the sky a burnt orange and sending a hammerhead of smoke towering aloft. They couldn't be coming from the Yunkish catapults; the dark figures swarming ashore had already turned them into so many tokar-clad corpses. As for the Volantene fleet, it was sinking or sunk, torrents of flame belching from the spars while motley-faced sailors swam desperately for their lives. The krakens had always been adept at such things; they'd burned the Lannister ships in harbor during Lord Balon's rebellion, after all. Which of the bastards is it? Lord Balon himself had had a misadventure with a bridge, his sons were dead, and of his three surviving brothers, Aeron had gone religious, leaving either Victarion or Euron. If it's Victarion, we're bloody fucked. If it's Euron, we're bloody fucked and damned to boot.
Tyrion had to think about these things, think about getting himself and Penny off the battlements and back toward the risible safety of the hostel. Elsewise he'd think about what had just passed between them, what he'd learned, and he was quite sure that to do so would evict his last fragile remnants of sanity permanently. He half carried, half dragged her across the courtyard, hearing the scream and flare as another fireball struck directly overhead. We're not going to need the dragons at this rate. They'd be the first to die, trapped here right by the city walls, which were due to be breached in a matter of minutes. The only incentive the Second Sons had to save him would be all that gold he'd promised them, and they had none whatsoever to save Penny. Not unless I tell them to.
Tyrion hurled himself against the hostel door with a grunt of pain. Luridly he thought of the last battle he'd had the bad fortune to get mixed up in, complete with burning ships. But they had been burning on his command then, which was quite different. At least there's no Ser Mandon to look out for this time. Pod had saved him from that; shame the boy was probably dead. He thought of Sandor Clegane turning craven and refusing to lead another sortie into the fire, and how he'd vowed to do it instead, which led to his meeting with said Ser Mandon. Thought of – seven hells, dwarf, bloody shut up, shut up, and get through this fucking door!
It opened from the inside just as Tyrion was taking a running start. As a result, he flew magnificently within, surely a trick that would have met with boisterous applause if he'd performed it off Pretty Pig's back, and sprawled flat, utterly winded, at the startled feet of Brown Ben Plumm. It's not as if I had any dignity left to lose. Wheezing, tasting blood, Tyrion pushed himself to hands and knees. "Ben. We need to get out of here. Now."
"Where?" the sellsword captain asked practically, just as a flushed and gasping Penny sped in. "Run to them dragons, maybe?"
"I don't care where. We may have just enough time to get farther into the city. Not that we're much more likely to survive there, but an arseload of bloodthirsty Greyjoys are going to come bursting through that wall – " Tyrion pointed – "any moment now. You can stay for the party if you wish, but I'd rather not. And remember, the sooner I die, the sooner you die a poor man."
Brown Ben hesitated, then nodded. He hoisted Tyrion under one arm, Penny under the other, and barreled through to the front room, where the Second Sons were already strapping on their swords. "Change of plans, lads. Any of you that wishes is welcome to bugger off and fight the squids or the Yunkai'i or whatever bloody else is out there. If you survive, come on back, your contract is still binding. If you die, I didn't need you anyway. As for me, I'm on dwarf-sitting duty. See you when the fighting's done."
It was a mark of the singular nature of sellswords, Tyrion thought, that none of them blinked an eye at this version of a motivational pre-battle speech. I like it rather well myself. No blathering on about gods and crown and country, no appeal to nonexistent altruism, no promising that their deaths would be glorious and long-remembered in songs. It made him miss Bronn. The only man who was my companion, I paid for it. The only woman who was my lady, I paid for it. But then again, I am a Lannister. And now I've –
No. Bloody no.
As the Second Sons began to disperse in haste – sellswords would have the devil of a time sitting and waiting, even if it meant risking their necks in a clash they had no financial stake in – Tyrion felt a new pair of arms remove him from Plumm's grasp. He twisted around to see Kasporio. "If you don't mind, Ben," the second-in-command said, "I'm joining you in the dwarf-minding duty. And as this one's the more useful, he's the one I'll be taking."
Brown Ben opened his mouth to protest. But at that moment a deafening shriek was followed by a sickening crunch, a flaming meteor punched through the roof not ten paces from where they stood, and it was made abundantly clear to all of them that they were out of time. Someone jammed the front door open, and the lot of them fled into the hellish streets.
Tyrion clambered onto Kasporio's shoulders like a child begging a ride from his father, and, ignoring the sellsword's curse of protest, clamped down on his ears. Heard again the song the crossbow had sung as it killed his own father, but this time it was no memory. Panicked Meereenese thronged around them, a few who must have been pit fighters climbing up on the wallwalks and taking the full brunt of the attack as they attempted to defend the city that had enslaved them. The rich and idle were undoubtedly cowering in their villas, praying for it to be over. For the briefest of moments, Tyrion felt pity for them. It was scarce as if they had asked to be sacked and occupied, turned into pawns and plagued by murders. And now they get the bloody Greyjoys. Seems a bit unfair, really.
Then he thought of those same citizens packed into Daznak's Pit, eagerly waiting for him to die being torn apart by a lion, and his sympathy vanished. He and Kasporio dodged and wove through the human tide, trying to keep Penny and Brown Ben in sight ahead. He wondered where they could possibly be going. The Great Pyramid was the most dangerous option, especially if Ser Barristan had actually been able to bring himself to kill Hizdahr, and anything less would likewise be only the illusion of safety. When I said that the whole city would profit from being burned down, I didn't mean when I was –
A firmament-shattering crack went off, and the world disappeared in flames. Tyrion could hear stone and bricks falling, ducked but not fast enough to avoid having his cheek lacerated by the flying shards, choked on muck and blood and char. Kasporio staggered, nearly dropping him, and dwarf and sellsword stumbled down the alley beyond as fast as they could go. Tyrion could hear someone burning; their screams ripped out even over the chaos of the collapse. Gods, don't let that be anyone I know.
Coughing and gagging, Tyrion clung at Kasporio's heels as they switchbacked erratically among the labyrinth of side lanes. If they were separated again, he was done for. I'll damn well make him treasurer of Casterly Rock if he gets me out of this. He had seriously considered killing himself, tried to become the monster everyone had always called him, done enough wrong that the Father was going to have to find a second roll of parchment to read his judgment, but Tyrion Lannister still wanted to live.
Up ahead, as the smoke cleared in the wake of another explosion, he caught a glimpse of a high golden dome, columns and cloisters crowned by minarets and mosaics. The Temple of the Graces. Just as Tyrion finished deciding that it looked like a splendid place to be reduced to rubble, Kasporio hauled him back up and made a break for it.
"What in the seven hells are you doing?" Tyrion bellowed, kicking futilely. In mainland Westeros, septs and godswoods and other holy places were revered as refuges and sanctuaries, where not even the most reprobate criminal would dare to spill blood. But if this was Euron, he'd march in there and find himself a pretty young White Grace to rape on the nearest altar. If it was Victarion, he'd just sack it stone by stone. Bugger all Greyjoys. Bugger, bugger, bugger all Greyjoys.
Tyrion was still thinking this as vehemently as possible, considering it his humble contribution to the cause, when Kasporio wrenched at the heavy carved doors and then they were inside, in the soaring, silent halls of the temple. The noise of the assault still rumbled outside, but distantly. The statues and screens trembled just slightly, as if the gods had reached down a finger and pushed them like a top.
"This is madness," Tyrion complained again, weakly, as Kasporio set him down. "They're going to – "
"You want to go back outside, Imp?"
"No."
"Well then. Besides, some of those Graces – the black ones, I think – they'll have a lusty welcome for the squids. Magic or dark arts or some such. We can be bloody cowards and hide up their skirts."
"Oh good," said Tyrion. "I'm just the right size to hide up a woman's skirt." But the jape felt poisoned. He thought of that whore in Volantis, of Shae, of all his bedwarmers over the years – in other words, exactly what he did not want to think about right now. He broke into a trot to keep up with Kasporio's longer strides, their footfalls sounding loudly on the tiles. Whether or not any Grace of any color intended to have anything to do with the matter, Tyrion was all for finding some convenient alcove and stowing away for a day or three. With any luck, they'll look right over me.
But he did not have luck, as the gods delighted in pointing out again and again, and he certainly should not expect that to change here in some pagan Meereenese temple. As they retreated further into the corridors that led off the sanctuary, it did occur to Tyrion to wonder just what sort of gods these people worshiped. Likely the same as any – ones who wanted fear and fealty and filthy lucre, and who could be made to look suitably divine and wrathful when done up in bronze or painted on a frieze. If this religion does have as many nubile young girls as it appears, they'll have no trouble converting me. It was certainly a place of women's power; the veiled Graces in all their tapestries of color, the hanging crystals that quivered in the distant explosions, and the statue of a. . .
. . . harpy.
Tyrion stopped dead in his tracks. No, he hadn't mistaken it: the fountain ahead, set in the center of a small reflecting room, was crowned with the golden likeness of a harpy, water spurting from her open mouth and her claws tearing at the broken chains beneath her. Tyrion told himself not to make too much of it. The harpy was the sigil of Meereen, after all; by this time tomorrow, there might be two dozen statues of it pulled down in the smoking wreckage. But to find it here, coupled with what Kasporio had said about the Black Graces giving the Greyjoys a lusty welcome. . .
"You." Tyrion snatched the sellsword's sleeve, his hissed whisper nonetheless sounding as loud as a shout. "It's just occurred to me that we might be wise to get out of here after all."
"Scared of a statue, Imp?"
"Not the bloody statue, the fact that a bunch of so-called Sons of the Harpy have been killing every foreigner and collaborator they can get their hands on. And that statue, in case it escaped your notice, is a harpy."
Kasporio shrugged. "True, but the high priestess – what's her name, the Green Grace – was one of the little queen's closest advisors. Tell her that we're on Daenerys' side, and we'll have all the skirts to hide up we could want."
"I don't think I will." Tyrion took a step backwards. "And if this priestess was the Harpy, where better for her to hide than in plain sight, posing as Daenerys' most trusted counselor, hearing her strategies, easing her fears. . . was it not on this Green Grace's advice that the queen wed Hizdahr zo Loraq? I seem to recall hearing that it was."
"That's so," Kasporio allowed. "Far as I know, at least. But they're called Sons of the Harpy. . ."
"Aye. But that is because the Harpy is a woman. Gods, I should have seen it. I know something about murderous vengeful queens. It never had to be a man. Never at all." And now we're in the Harpy's den, right when I ordered Ser Barristan to murder the Harpy's catspaw. His timing had been bad before, but never quite that bad.
With this falling horrifyingly into place, Tyrion was not inclined to waste further time in cogitation. But there was the one small problem which had driven them here in the first place – namingly, that the entire city was on fire outside, and that no matter the problems afforded by their current location, it at least had the distinction both of being built of stone and staffed with stout-hearted fighters. Of course, they'll kill us too if they can, but what's that, now? If the Green Grace did put in an appearance, he might just talk her into believing what a good Son of the Harpy he would make. Then he could bide his time undercover, assuming Kasporio didn't do anything stupid, and reveal the secret precisely when it would profit him the most. Mayhaps in front of the queen's entire court. If Ser Barristan had a thimbleful of theatricality, he would then hold up Hizdahr zo Loraq's severed head to the accompanying dramatic clash of cymbalos.
This was admittedly a flimsy plan – for one, it assumed that there would even be a court once the Greyjoys got through with it – but Tyrion liked it by far the most of all his present options. He opened his mouth to inform Kasporio of the decision, then stopped at the look on the sellsword's face. He heard the gentle rattling of beaded curtains behind him, smelled a scent like palm and mint. Speak of the devil.
"My friends," said a woman's voice, in Meereenese-accented Common Tongue. "You will answer me what brings you here, I trust?"
Tyrion swallowed. Then he turned, affecting his most winning smile. "Gladly, my lady. I daresay you did not expect to find a pair of grubby intruders in your lovely temple. It is lovely, by the way."
The Green Grace – for there was no one else it could be – studied him without answering, in a way that reminded him of Ser Barristan. She was much older than he'd expected, seventy or eighty, but a tall and dignified woman, her tokar edged in gold and a brooch of emerald and jade clasping it over her left shoulder. Her silver hair was styled in the Ghiscari fashion, bound with coils of wire. She certainly did not resemble the apocryphal shrieking murderess he'd pictured, but then, in his head, they all looked like Cersei.
"My apologies," Tyrion continued. "We were only seeking refuge. Meereen is burning."
"I know." The priestess' eyes were green as well, a startling color in her dark bronze complexion. "The krakens are come at last. The pale mare has ridden, the sun's son is dead, and you, unless I am much mistaken, would be the lion."
Tyrion was taken aback. "Whatever gives you that notion?"
The Green Grace smiled. "It is what the seer Quaithe told the queen. My powers of foreseeing cannot match the art of those trained in Asshai, it is true, but I am no blind old crone. Would you deny it again, Tyrion of House Lannister?"
It did him no good to play stupid, Tyrion realized. "No. I am charmed to make your acquaintance, Your – Grace?"
That made her smile again, but strangely. "No need. I am called Galazza Galare."
"Galazza Galare, the Green Grace. How wonderfully alliterative. Did your parents do that on purpose?"
The priestess merely stared back at him, and Tyrion told himself fiercely to mind his tongue. He'd proven that he wasn't afraid of her, but there was a fine line between familiarity and flippancy – a line which he perpetually ended up on the wrong side of. Runs in the family. Instead he cleared his throat and said hastily, "You needn't tell me I'm a vile little man, for I know it well. But if you know who I am, then certainly you know that I could be useful to you. Grace has never been one of my virtues, true, but I make up for it with – "
"With what?" The Green Grace took a step closer. There was another explosion outside, much closer. "Your fair face? Your glib tongue? Your belief that even now, I am a silly old female who will lap up your poisoned patter? I told you I was not blind, do you think me deaf instead?"
"No, my lady. Of course not." This was not going as well as Tyrion hoped. "I only meant to say that – "
"It is unsurprising." Now she stood just across from him, on the far side of the fountain. "Women are like that to you, dwarf. Virgins or whores or monsters. You pay them and pay them, with one sort of false coin or another. But still you never fathom them, and you never respect them. And now you set foot in here and compliment me on my lovely temple, as if it was what my meek lady's heart wished to hear? That is why you will never serve the queen, either the earthly or the heavenly. You'd think of fucking her and you'd think of fighting with her – but only to destroy the other queen. Your golden sister. Your only wish to rape and kill her."
Tyrion was utterly discomfited. There is no way in creation for her to know that. He had said that at some point. . . to Magister Illyrio, he thought, but the whole of his sojourn in Pentos was a wine-soaked blur. "If you. . . if you knew my sweet sister, you'd agree that it was merited. That she – "
"No!" the Green Grace exploded. "It is not! You hate your sister because she is the only woman you have ever feared, whom you could not defeat. And so – "
"No, I hate my sister because she's a heinous murdering bitch – "
"See, you make it plain again – "
"One question, my lady." This was going to induce her to try to kill him beyond any doubt. Pray the gods Kasporio had his blade at the ready. "If you so venerate your own sex above mine, then why are the Sons of the Harpy murdering Queen Daenerys' men by your command? Would it not serve you better to actually secure her rule, as you pretended to be doing? She has a cunt too, you must like that."
The Green Grace went white to the lips. I have her. For a moment Tyrion allowed himself to feel a grim exultation; clearly she had not anticipated that he would have riddled out her identity, for all her proud prattle about what she had foreseen. She took half a step back. Then, in a voice so vibrant with rage that it could have been plucked like a harp, she said, "Yes, dwarf. You are correct. I am the Harpy. Who else? Who else would care that these men had betrayed their Mother, their city and their goddess?"
"I was wondering when the gods would enter into it. They always do, at some point. And it was just men you killed, but there were surely women who entered the queen's service as well. Or were they somehow exempt from divine wrath?"
The Green Grace looked at him with eyes slitted with hate. "Women suffer enough in this world. Why kill them myself, when there are so many of you willing to do it for us?"
"And so, the queen – was it holy purpose when you tried to have her poisoned?"
"I never did." She was furious and on the defensive, but something about her voice made Tyrion think that she was telling the truth – she'd already copped to being the Harpy, after all. "That was Hizdahr's own notion. Vainglorious, empty-headed fool that he is, he does have a certain amount of influence among the city's nobility. If Queen Daenerys took him for husband, if she devoted herself to becoming truly Meereenese, there would be no traitors and no need to kill them – do you think I wanted to? But I swore an oath in my own blood the day I was consecrated, to defend the city and all she is and will be. And Hizdahr decided that it was better for our purposes to remove the foreigner entirely, to take her dragons, and rise again, harder and stronger. Rise unbreakable."
The echo of the ironmen's prayer to their Drowned God made Tyrion shudder, especially with the flesh-and-blood lot of them reaping and pillaging outside this very moment. "That's your problem, there. You believe in some ridiculous celestial cause larger than yourself, conveniently undefinable, until it gulps up common sense and reason and restraint, and any horror you can dream up becomes automatically sanctioned. Then – "
"No, dwarf. There's your problem. You believe in nothing larger than yourself and your own selfishness. Then you see no need for sacrifice or dreams or charity, because what does it matter in the end?"
"I ordered Ser Barristan to kill Hizdahr. You'll be glad to know that we're on the same side of that."
"No," the Green Grace said, with absolute finality. "No, we're not. I have heard enough of you, my lord. It is time your lies were brought to an end."
That did not sound promising. Tyrion whirled, having some notion of sprinting for the door, but it slammed shut of its own accord before he reached it. He looked wildly around for Kasporio, suddenly realizing that he hadn't heard from the sellsword in some time, but he was gone. "What did you do with him?"
"The Black Graces came to give him a lusty welcome," Galazza Galare said, with a twisted smile. "Just as he wanted. They're women, after all. Rapacious sluts, the lot."
Seven hells. I didn't even hear them. Kasporio had vanished off the face of the earth with no more sound than a whisper, and now it struck Tyrion that he was truly alone. There was no way out of this. His only hope was to go down fighting, die like a Lannister – not on the privy, Father, see, Father, I'll be in hell with you in just a few moments, Father, and with both of us and both the Cleganes down there, the Stranger will be put out of business for the rest of Westeros –
The Green Grace drew a knife. He didn't see from where, but suddenly it was in her hand, a long leaf-shaped bronze blade. Then, far faster than one would expect of such an aged lady, she swooped at him – so fast, in fact, that he thought she'd sprouted wings like her namesake. At least she doesn't have my nose to aim for. There was no doubt, however, that she was going for his neck, and that was somewhat less replaceable.
Tyrion threw up his arms, feeling a searing pain as the edge skittered off them. Blood splashed on the pale stone. She'll draw that harpy in it as soon as I stop twitching. He thought briefly of how he'd wanted to die – in bed, at the age of eighty, with wine and a woman conveniently to hand – and decided that this was not at all an acceptable alternative. No – I don't – bloody hell, I knew I'd talk myself into the grave – kept grappling with her, trying to bat the knife away from his face –
And then, the high window above them exploded.
As the shards of leaded glass hailed down around them, Tyrion was able to wrench free. The noise was deafening, cracks spidering through the stone, and he thought in sheer madness that he'd never known the Greyjoys were able to fly. Then the temple shook again, the shadow fell over them, and he saw what it was instead.
Dragon. It thrilled to him to the core, to that old abused part of him that was still a little boy, that had dreamed of fire made flesh when he'd snuck down to see those skulls beneath the Red Keep. On a dragon's back I would be taller than all of them. He'd known they were here, that they were real, had told Ser Barristan to unloose them, but nothing could compare to that first sight. The beast thrust through, its blunt snout peeling back to reveal a jungle of teeth. It shook itself like a dog, shattering the remnants of the window, and crawled in the rest of the way, leathery wings and curved pinions and smooth ivory scales. Hanging from the ceiling like a great bat, it reared back and breathed fire.
Galazza Galare screamed. Tyrion could feel it searing his back, could hear all the water in the fountain hissing and turning to steam, the crash as the harpy statue came thundering down. The flame was gold and red and umber, catching in the draperies, burning through the silk. Smoke stung Tyrion's eyes and throat. He could still hear the Green Grace screaming, couldn't see her through the inferno, wondered if the other dragon had been sicced upon the Greyjoys and how well the soggy bastards liked that. There was always the possibility, of course, that they were too soaked with seawater to burn.
There is only one way out of here. The absurdity of what he was going to have to do occurred to Tyrion only faintly. With how roasted I'll be, they can put an apple in my mouth and serve me with a nice wine and cheese. But he, luckily, had been born absurd. And a Lannister, gods help us all.
If he had any prayers to say, now would have been the time to say them. He didn't. Instead, he charged.
Galazza Galare's screaming had changed to a choked whimper. He smelled crackling flesh, could dimly see the priestess dragging herself backwards on the floor. Her tokar was smoking, her burning hands curled to claws, as the dragon – with a certain relish that made Tyrion think it knew exactly what it was doing – prepared for the coup de grace. It was the image of death in that moment, stark and terrible, a predator reigning over its prey and prepared to wreak blood with fire.
Instead, it got tackled by a dwarf.
I don't think this is exactly what the Targaryens had in mind. Tyrion clamped hold of the smooth strong scales on the dragon's back, clutching with all the strength in his stunted arms, as the dragon snarled, thrashed its head, and tried in vain to pick him off. At last, it comes in handy to be small. He was neatly located just out of the range of its snapping jaws, and since it could not reach him, its only remaining option was to try to pitch him off in midair. Which was exactly what it did. With the Green Grace gasping in agony as the flames closed in around her, the dragon flapped upwards with a few effortless strokes. Through the crack of his eyes where his face was pressed against its hide, Tyrion saw the temple growing smaller and smaller beneath him. I'm riding a dragon.
They writhed and undulated upwards, battling through the smoke. Tyrion felt a blast of fresh air as they won free of the broken temple and surged above the golden dome, the fiery chaos of the sanctuary ust visible below. The higher they climbed, the further he could see across the rooftops of Meereen, but he was in no position to appreciate the view. He thought the sharp scales were about to slice through his fingers. Not to mention the heat, searing into him; he could feel the blisters rising. The dragon was an immensity of muscle and talon and scale and sinew, each beat of its wings propelling it forward at unbelievable speed. Tyrion's strength was fading fast, but at least he could say he'd done this. At least he'd lived so long as to see dragons returned to the world. Then he could die with head high, not –
And that was when, slashing through the smoky air, the darkness punched with the wounds of a thousand fires, he heard the horn.
It jarred through him like a blow, all the way down to his bones. A thousand voices seemed to be screaming in it, straight into his ear; a thousand souls in torment. It rose and fell in a skirling wail, eeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeee. No one in all of Meereen could hide from it. And yet Tyrion Lannister knew, somehow, that it was not calling to him. It was calling to the dragons.
The white dragon tossed its head as if trying to chase away a bee. Huffing and snorting smoke, it performed one final loop-the-loop and fell like a rock, to the accompaniment of full-throated screaming from Tyrion. Then it caught itself and began to flap almost drunkenly, still pursued by that terrible sound. It is stalking him. It will bind him if it can. What exactly "it" was, Tyrion was unclear, but it confirmed all of his worst fears as to which of Balon Greyjoy's brothers had ventured all the way to Meereen on the gods knew what errand. The Silence is known and feared in ports across the world. It is only Euron that would seek to wreak this fell sorcery. Only Euron that would know how.
Aloud, he wheezed, "Bugger."
The white dragon – he seemed to recall hearing that the little queen had named them after her late brothers, and also that the green-and-bronze one was Rhaegal, which must make this one Viserion – seemed to be losing his battle against the sway of the horn. Bloody fantastic, I'm riding a dragon named after an idiot. If only Rhaegal had been so obliging as to be the one to burst his way into the Temple of the Graces, he might – he might – but Tyrion couldn't think of what it would be, exactly. Viserion rose and plunged again, the echoes of the hornblast still thrumming in the smoke-scarred sky. Then the dragon banked, swerved, and took off like a shot toward the Great Pyramid, from whence the sound was emanating.
Wind whistled in Tyrion's ears, and his eyes watered furiously. The heat pierced him through; he was shaking with the strain. But somewhere along the way he had decided that falling off was simply not a possibility, and now he intended to at least live long enough to see Viserion give the Crow's Eye a faceful of flame. See how well he relishes that. But if this was some spell, bending the dragons to his will. . . Euron Crow's Eye was terrifying enough on his own. Euron Crow's Eye with two dragons at his command was bloody unthinkable.
It might be a wiser idea to pitch myself off instead. But now his fingers were frozen, he couldn't even if he had wanted, and so he remained dumbly clamped like a barnacle as Viserion winged his way toward the dark ziggurat below. Isolated fires smoked, small figures scuttled, screaming rose above the clatter of stones and arrows. They were making for the very peak of the pyramid, and the origin of the horn.
Tyrion saw them then, most running for cover as the dragon soared down. One of them – two of them – were not. One was a great dark shadow, standing in sooty grey armor chased with gold, a kraken spreading its eight arms on the bullock's chest. The hair was black and long, the eyes pits, the nose a vulture's beak. Not Euron, who was as comely as he was deadly. Victarion. Seven hells.
The other – Tyrion recognized him as well. There could be no two men with that same white ruff, coal-dark skin and tattoos inked around his face. He was wearing a robe sewn from a kraken banner, rather than the red of his order that he had last been clad in. But he had last been seen going overboard on the Selaesori Qhoran during the great storm that had broken them up – bloody hell –
"Come," Moqorro called in his deep dark thunderous voice, raising his hands toward the sky. "Come as it is willed. Come to the man who is soon to rule the skies and bind the flames to his service."
No, Tyrion thought uselessly. No, let's not.
Too late. Viserion was teetering down, closer and closer, and it was then that Tyrion saw the other two unfortunates who'd been invited to this demented party. One looked to be a Greyjoy man, clutching a twisted black horn in his smoking dead hand. Blood was oozing from his mouth; Tyrion did not need to see the way his eyes stared to know that he was dead. Winding that cursed thing could only come at such a price.
The other was on his knees, head bent, hands bound, blood seeping down his face from the torn wound on his scalp. Taking him could not have been any easier. Ser Barristan, what have you done? Only what I told you to. Somehow, even though Selmy was no friend to him, that thought hurt.
No one seemed to have noticed that Tyrion had stowed away on Viserion. He debated whether or not to alert them. It didn't look to be a wise idea, but –
"The dragon is here." Moqorro turned to Victarion. "You must bind the horn to you with blood, elsewise the other one will not come and this one will not stay. Once you are its master, the dragons shall be yours, and you will be spared the need to sacrifice a man each time you would have them do your will. Remember. Remember what I told you."
For a moment, Victarion remained motionless. Then he flexed his fingers – Tyrion had thought he was wearing a glove, but his hand was black as onyx, seeming to smoke slightly. . . yet that might only have been the reflection of the countless fires. Then from his side he drew a blade.
It was not even meant for him, and yet Tyrion had had quite enough of people pulling knives before his face. Especially as it hit him what the iron captain meant to do with it, as he took a step and then another and then stood before Barristan Selmy.
"You are an honorable man," Victarion said. "You fought bravely. But now you will serve a greater purpose. When the queen and I are bound together, my Iron Fleet and her dragons, we shall rule the whole of the world. It is by your sacrifice you shall make it so."
"No." Selmy coughed, splattering blood. "No. If you would take mastery of the dragons from her, you would take – "
Victarion Greyjoy laughed, the sound like the distant thunder still ringing out across the sacking of Meereen. "I take whatever I can. We Do Not Sow. At my right hand, the fair queen will finally learn the truth of her own words. Fire and Blood. We will burn every city that stands in our way, we will write our names in fame and legend. I heard you have already made her a widow. I thank you. In your death you will give her life."
"I would sooner live to serve her." Selmy's blue eyes met Victarion's dark ones unflinching. "And you will find this a grievous error. But I will not beg."
"Nor did I expect you would." Victarion raised the blade in both hands. "Moqorro."
The red priest stepped forward. Sparks trailed off his sailcloth robes; his eyes had likewise turned to flame. He began to speak in some arcane language, spreading his hands, and Tyrion, still clinging in stupefaction to the dragon's back, knew that the beast might yet be under the horn's spell – but he was not. Victarion had said that Barristan had killed Hizdahr. . . on my orders. . . and now the Harpy was burned and it was the squids who had come instead. . . fire and blood. . . he could hear Galazza Galare screaming, and he could see Penny's face just before that wall had crashed down between them.
I get these queer fits of being a hero. But what, after all, was he doing on this dragon, if not to burn what stood in his way?
Tyrion opened his mouth to shout.
Victarion Greyjoy drove the blade home.