"Of course. The lads love gold and hate the Arryns. Besides, they've got a fondness for big, sharp toys."
Jaime burst out laughing at that. Qyburn's lips curved in the faintest of smiles, while the others leaned forward with interest.
"And how exactly am I supposed to find them?" the Master of Coin persisted.
"Oh, come now, Tyrion. We all know you've surely arranged some way to send them word," Kevan immediately seized on my thought. "We'll give them whatever they ask for—coin, weapons, clothes, provisions… We only need to find the right man."
"And who would that be?"
"You have Bronn. This sort of thing is right up his alley," I suggested, and my uncle fell into thought.
In truth, it had always struck me as somehow wrong that Tyrion had simply let such a force slip from his grasp. It wasn't in his nature, as they say.
"Very well, I'll inform Bronn today that he is to set out for the Mountains of the Moon," Tyrion muttered. "I can just imagine how thrilled he'll be."
"You'd better imagine how thrilled Lysa Arryn and her darling Littlefinger will be when they feel such a splinter under their skin," Genna smirked.
"Then let's call it a day," Kevan said, turning toward me. "Our army will be fully ready in three days. Are you certain you mean to ride with Jaime?"
"Yes. I want to see a real war. Don't worry—I don't intend to take foolish risks, nor do I plan to interfere with the Lord Commander."
"I've no objections," Jaime said. Of course, he already knew of my plans, and they pleased him. It seemed he had enjoyed our ride to Riverrun as much as I had.
"Wait a moment—you're going to war?" Tyrion fixed me with a baffled stare. He looked stunned, as did Genna and Pycelle. Rowan and Estermont, however, took the news calmly.
"That's right."
"People sometimes get killed there," Tyrion hinted.
"That's the nature of war."
"And what, you'll take a dragon with you?" he asked cautiously.
I gave a careless nod, as though we were discussing something commonplace rather than the greatest treasure—and curse—of Westeros.
Tyrion darkened at once, and I knew what was running through his mind.
The dragon promised to grow into one enormous problem. It seemed I had been foolish from the very beginning to allow Tyrion to take part in her birth and upbringing. A bond had begun to form between them. That was my mistake, and now I saw it clearly and distinctly.
Though I had promised my uncle nothing and the dragon belonged entirely to me, it could still end with her choosing Tyrion as her rider—and her master.
The dragon, incidentally, had turned out to be female, and for the color of her scales I had named her Turquoise.
There was, however, a certain difficulty. For now she was small enough to live in one chamber or another of the Red Keep. But what would happen later, when Turquoise grew up and became a serious threat to other people?
The Targaryens had once kept their beasts in the Dragonpit—a colossal structure atop Rhaenys's Hill in King's Landing. It had been built by Maegor the Cruel, and dragons were not its only purpose: tourneys were held there as well, for the building could seat more than eighty thousand people around its arena.
At present, the Dragonpit lay in ruins and is located on the other side of the capital. And legend held that the dragons once dwelled there had never grown as vast or as deadly as those ridden by the first Targaryens.
In short, by going to war with Jaime and taking the dragon with me, I hoped that in the months we would spend there, Turquoise might forget Tyrion. So, cautiously and subtly, I meant to put distance between them.
Well, as for myself, I truly did need to gain experience and take part in military action. Was it dangerous? Of course. On the other hand, life in Westeros was filled with risk even apart from war itself. And experience of this kind can only be gained by standing in real battle.
So I will ride with Jaime. I sincerely hope he won't allow me to be killed there.
***
Marwyn the Mage
Visions, visions, visions… How changeable and inconstant you are, and how difficult to understand! You are water slipping through one's fingers, leaving only a damp trace behind. And even that vanishes with the coming of the sun.
Not long ago, everything had been simple and clear. In the flame of the black candles he had seen three dragons and their Mother. His path had seemed straight and certain, like the dusty roads of ancient Valyria.
And he had known what he must do: outfit a vessel and sail far to the east, to where at the mouth of the Skahazadhan River sprawled the ancient city of Meereen, astonishing the traveler with its riot of bright colors, its undimmed grandeur and wealth. It astonished in other ways as well—betrayal and flowery flattery, feuding dynasties and factions, slavery, the frequent use of poison, and prostitution—but of such things the bards preferred not to sing.
There were the dragons and their Mother, and therefore all mankind's hope that it might not perish beneath another onslaught of Chaos and the Ancient Evil now gathering strength beyond the Wall.
He had chartered a ship, and everything was prepared. On the final evening, he resolved to gaze once more into the fire…
(End of Chapter)
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