Meereen: The Great Pyramid:
"Any news?"
"Nothing. The watchers on the wall reported an empty valley. The smoke is black—dying."
Meereen's sprawling, rusted wall was very different from The Wall, thought Tyrion. One was cold and built with magic-made stone; the other was dust and blood. It circled the ancient city and, at the ground, appeared infallible. From where Tyrion sat, he thought it a rather fragile defense against the immense dunes and fractured mountains leering in its direction.
There was no magic in Meereen, only suffering. Tyrion was surprised that the souls pressed between the bricks hadn't besieged the city and torn it asunder, leaving it a ruin in the sand like so many once-great outposts scattered through Essos. The whole land was cursed, hell—the whole fucking world.
Tyrion had taken to sitting on the ledge that ran around the apex of the pyramid. Mostly it was because he wasn't tall enough to see over its edge if he stood, as Missandei did now. Her dark skin reminded him that he was far from home. His own sickly complexion and matted blonde hair cast him as an outsider. He felt naked, out in the world without the purse of his family wealth to back his famous words, 'A Lannister always pays their debts.' With what, he wondered, would he pay his debts now? Hopefully not his cock.
"I am certain that she'll return," Tyrion added, looking up thoughtfully at his companion. They'd not spoken in private since the fighting pits, where he'd saved her on a whim from the swords of the Harpies. "If the stories that reached King's Landing have a hair of truth, she has a talent for survival."
"It's not for her that I fear," Missandei replied, watching the sprawl of buildings keenly. The current inhabitants were squatters in the wealth of the past. They were ambivalent to the buildings crumbling around them and the relative squalor of the streets that touched the river. "I cannot forget their masks. These slaver cities—they are all the same. There is no hope to ever rule them. They already have rulers—faceless men."
"Faceless Men are something else entirely," he assured her. "These are men, and they have faces. They have names and weaknesses."
"Is it true about Hizdahr zo Loraq?"
"If Varys says it's true, then it is. That he was murdered by his own kind is interesting in itself. The Masters are infighting, struggling for power, and while they're busy doing that, we need to drag this city back from the sand."
"We are in a desert." Missandei stepped closer, sliding her hands over the coarse surface of the ledge. "The grass sea dies, and the sand will blow in again. Do you miss home?" She had never met a Lannister. Occasionally she had heard their name, usually in relation to gold or debts that were outstanding. The West didn't deal in slaves, but it certainly raped the ports.
"Hardly," Tyrion answered honestly. "If I return to Westeros and our dragon queen fails, the only view of the Iron Throne I'll have will be from a spike on the castle wall."
Missandei had to admit that there was probably truth in that. "Why are you out here so early?" she finally asked.
"Learning from an old friend," he replied. "He used to say that you could deduce a wealth of information about a city by watching. He was a man that did a lot of it. If Varys is a spider, my friend is a bird."
"That is wise," she agreed, "but if you are to listen to your friend's whispers, you will need to speak the language better than you do." Her tone held no offense. "I could teach you, if you like."
"Yes—I'd like that."
She switched their conversation to Valyrian, and they talked some more of faraway lands and future queens.
Essos: The Great Grass Sea:
"You fuss too much." Daenerys placed her hand on Mormont's wrist to stop him from fumbling with the bandage. Her leg was wrapped in several bloodied lengths from her dress; filthy as they were, they were the cleanest to be found. It veiled a simple cut from falling against a stray knife. Such a scratch could not harm a dragon, but her bear worried all the same. He hadn't dared to touch her neck. Dany wondered why. The cut there must be obvious against her pale skin.
Jorah paused at the weight of her hand. It rested atop the rags, hiding the vile progression of dragon scale. He slipped away from her in an uncharacteristic action. Usually he lived for her touches. Dany assumed it was because she'd sent him away—left him to die on the edge of the world or in the pits of Meereen while she watched. She'd abandoned him and her dragons alike.
"We have no food or water," Jorah broke the silence, his grey eyes finding hers. "If we are to make it back to Meereen, we need to head out and take the mountain pass while the black ice has melted. Can you walk?"
Dany nodded. Her head felt as though she'd had too much wine, and her limbs shook with cold, but yes, she could walk. Jorah readied himself, sheathing his sword after cleaning last night's blood onto the grass. The momentary hiss of metal took her back to last night—to Jorah's blade dividing life and death. For a moment, it was the only thing that kept her alive. If she was honest, it was far from the first time her life had been bound to his blade.
"Khaleesi?" he asked, waiting to venture into the morning with her. When she did not move, Jorah held out his hand as he had done in Meereen. It was steady, and Dany took it, laying her tiny palm against his. Perhaps they didn't need to talk about all that had passed...
*~*~*
After many hours, Dany caught herself pining over the valley below with its silken grass and streams of cool, mountain water. Whatever promises it held, they were frequently shattered by a Dothraki rider barreling through on a terrified horse. Each time she drew back from the edge.
"I never thanked you for your gift," Dany said, waiting on a perch of icy rock.
Jorah pulled himself up to join her shortly after, pausing for breath against the ugly rock. He was more injured than he let on. "The Lannister?" He'd really hoped to see that one without a head after all the hell he had bringing him to her feet. "He was a drunken lark."
"Adding him to my council may not be what you intended," she added, helping to pull him back to his feet when it seemed that he had no further will to stand, "but you have inadvertently brought me a political advisor. One with extensive, mostly current knowledge of my home."
"You cannot—" he was going to say, "trust," but that word was poison on his lips now. He had no right to counsel her on such things now. "You should not. Lannisters covet only two things: gold and crowns."
"That is what I am hoping. The lion wants to wield a bloody vengeance upon his house. For the moment, our goals are the same. What better revenge could be had than helping a dragon to take back the crown his family stole?"
He was tempered by that—barely. "If you ever decide to kill him, you let me be first in line."
She smiled. Her bear still had some fire in him. "He's your gift..." she shrugged innocently, despite her demonic state.
*~*~*
When the sun was at its highest inclination, Jorah lifted his head, looking to the expanse of sky. There were no clouds—only black smoke streaking in miserable rivers, ruining an otherwise pleasant vista. Essos was one of the places in the world best appreciated from a distance. When you got up close, it was all rough and hostile, scratching and hissing against travelers—devouring civilizations whole. The horselords succeeded because they were more beast than man.
"Stop now—" Jorah reached to his queen, taking hold of her elbow. He'd heard something on the wind. The flap of wings. Dragon wings. "Your children, my queen."
Daenerys turned. Her silver hair caught the wind, fanning wildly and—for the briefest moment—brushing Jorah's face. Three dragons flew from the fiery curve of the sun, dipping lower and lower. They made to land, stretching their thick legs out and flexing their claws before the moment they caught the ground, bringing the great creatures to a stop with a final rush of leather wings. They were so close that Dany felt the heat of their breath. They smelled of salt—some of it cracked and dry on their scales.
The dragons considered their mother and the bear, tilting their heads from side to side, leaning in and pawing at the ground, scratching clumps of grass free. Drogon was first to approach. Smoke drifted casually from his nostrils. There was fire smoldering in his belly. The Meereenese believed soot made its scales black. Jorah wondered what they'd make of Viserion's gleaming body.
Dany was near tears. She reached for Drogon, whispering to him as her fingers brushed his scales. They were both calmed by the touch, and soon the other two dragons wanted their turn, nudging each other out of the way.
It was a fantastic sight—three immense beasts and two small figures on the edge of a cliff.
Without warning, Drogon snapped his head around and knocked Jorah to the ground. At first, Jorah thought it was an accident and moved to sit up, but the dragon descended on him, catching one of its curved claws in the leathers of his boot. It dragged him along the ground, closer and closer, until Drogon picked him up in his jaw and tossed him a short way across the ground. It was too close to the brutal edge of the cliff for Jorah's liking.
"Drogon!"
Jorah heard Daenerys shout in surprise and scorn. His vision was blocked by the other two dragons, forming a gold and green barrier between them. He tried to say that he was alright, but the air was gone from his lungs. He lifted his hands toward Drogon, unable to speak. The dragon leaned down again, blowing smoke and dust over his face. Then the creature turned its attention to his arm—specifically the bloodied wraps around his forearm. It held him down with a toe on his breastplate and set about catching its black teeth in the cloth. A moment later, he felt the beast's rough tongue scorch against his skin. It licked him like a rabid dog gnawed the scabs on its leg.
When Jorah had the courage to look, the dragon scale was gone.
Meereen: Market Streets:
The food was stale. Sprays of berries and herbs swayed in the heat, marinating in the filth of Meereen's markets. They stretched from the river ports all the way to the forum, their smell and quality improving until the best of it filled the rich master's tables. Even these displays, Tyrion noticed, were sickly against the offerings of King's Landing.
His spider friend paced a parallel path, keeping to the shade. Varys paused. Tyrion mimicked. He saw the reason why. A tall, well-built man with the typical cyan and ochre robes of the masters. His were clean and neatly tied around a brass hoop. Varys lowered his head and tilted it ever so slightly—indicating that Tyrion should follow this man.
He did.
Tyrion was dressed as a merchant with robes enough to pass him off as a child. He slipped easily through the milling crowds, keeping the tall master in his sights. The man spoke to no one but used his hand to give various, unknown signs to people Tyrion couldn't pick from the crowd. Eventually the crowds thinned and the master took a left into the general streets. It was more difficult to follow now, so Tyrion hung back, ducking between cover.
He was increasingly aware that the street names were unfamiliar. The buildings on either side rose too high, hiding the landmarks from the skyline. All he could see was stone and sky. Gold. He was aware of the garish color before the reason why. Tyrion had taken the next corner too fast and now faced the gaping voids in a Harpy mask. There were eyes in there somewhere. A face. A name.
The hood slid back, revealing Tyrion's lightly curled, pale hair. Instinct made his muscles flex and his spine stretch that final quarter inch onto his height.
"Ah—gentlemen..." Tyrion began bravely. The three Harpy masks slithered back and forth. One had blood on its gilded horn—presumably from the slaughter in the fighting pits. "I've come to negotiate."