Chapter 339: Westward Meeting (Part I)
Trembling all over, a flicker of hope amidst the tension, his heart nearly leaping from his throat... how many years had it been since Petyr felt this way?
Reason told him that his concern for the Queen's safety was because she was his only hope of returning to Westeros; but a voice in his subconscious whispered: no, it's more than that.
It had been twenty years since he lost the duel for Catelyn Tully to Brandon Stark and was exiled by House Tully. He believed he had grown cold-hearted, that he would never again feel genuine dread for another person's sake. Yet Daenerys possessed a magical power to turn the impossible into reality.
Littlefinger instinctively stood on his tiptoes, eyes wide, wishing he could pour his entire life force into his gaze just to see if the Queen's silhouette was atop that great black beast.
The black dragon was much larger than it had been three and a half months ago; Petyr almost couldn't be certain it was the Queen's Drogon. It had flown within a hundred meters of the terrace, and with a graceful lift of its head, a flick of its tail, and a tilt of its body, it began to circle the pyramid's apex.
The sky was clear and cloudless. On the dragon's dark back, a bundle of white silk-like material shimmered under the direct sunlight—the silver hair of a Targaryen!
The appearance of the black dragon quickly drew the attention of all the Queen's followers within the city and the pyramid. Soon, five or six core figures of Meereen's new ruling structure gathered on the terrace. Under their ecstatic gaze, Drogon circled once, then twice, announcing his return to the entire city. Then, with wings beating against a fierce wind, he landed on the edge of the terrace with a lightness that defied his size. He lowered his head and crouched obediently—and that familiar, slender figure stepped onto the staircase the dragon had intentionally created with its wing joint and flank, descending steadily onto the terrace flagstones.
Daenerys seemed immune to the sun; the light made her skin appear as white as jade as ever, making her face look indescribably radiant. Even the fatigue from long travel could not mask the Queen's daunting beauty. After gazing at her for a moment, Petyr swallowed his complaints and questions.
The Queen had indeed begun to accept and respect him, but it was far from affection or true trust. He was merely an aide and senior advisor; he had to remember his place.
"Welcome back, Your Grace. All of Meereen has been waiting for you with bated breath."
A short while later, in a small hall in the upper reaches of the pyramid, Daenerys attended a small council meeting she had missed dozens of times.
To be precise, it was an expanded council—a familiar face was missing from the small round table, replaced by several strangers.
"Where is Daario?" Daenerys asked instinctively, glancing around.
Petyr frowned. This was a meeting of immense significance, yet the Queen's first question was about the whereabouts of her paramour; it was awkward in the extreme. Annoyed as he was, he answered truthfully: "I sent him to the east of the city to protect our trade lines with the Lhazareen. To ensure your people are fed and clothed."
"I hope he's up to the task," Daenerys thought. Sensing her slip in decorum, she quickly changed the subject: "And these new friends are..."
"They are Ironborn warriors from the Iron Islands, thousands of miles away, who sailed here to escort you back to Westeros." Petyr, like most in the Seven Kingdoms, disliked these pirates, but that didn't change the fact that they had performed great service in the war. "In the defense of Meereen last month, they launched a surprise attack from Slaver's Bay against the Yunkai'i navy and struck the enemy's flank upon landing, greatly easing the pressure on the Unsullied. Furthermore, the smoked hams, salt pork, bacon, and grain brought on the merchant ships in their fleet have somewhat alleviated the hunger of your people."
"We bought them on the way from Westeros," the burly representative of the Iron Fleet said with pride, placing heavy emphasis on the method of transaction: "We paid the 'iron price'."
The iron price? So they raided for it. Daenerys, who had already learned about the customs of various regions in Westeros from Littlefinger, shook her head inwardly. But she understood that as the beneficiary, she had no standing to be pedantic about it.
If Petyr's description of the Ironborn had set Daenerys's initial favorability of these residents of the Iron Islands at -10, this man's crude manners and the way he stared at her face dropped it another 10 points. However, this Iron Fleet was the first organized force to come from Westeros to pledge allegiance—that alone added 50 points of favor. Though her titles included "Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men," even Daenerys knew that was mere self-consolation; in Westeros, few were actually waiting for her return.
The appearance of these Ironborn filled that void, greatly boosting her confidence in the future.
"My lord, may I ask your name?" Daenerys asked in a soft, welcoming voice, putting on her most friendly expression.
"I'm no lord, Your Grace. You can call me Nute the Barber. In my youth, I was a hand with a throwing axe—could shave a man's head or beard with a toss, so they gave me the name," the sailor replied. Then he stood up angrily and pointed at another man beside him: "Furthermore, I must immediately expose this demon! It was he who whispered lies in Captain Victarion's ear, causing the Iron Fleet to lose its leader!"
Another sailor stood up, furiously claiming that the sorcerer beside them shouldn't be at the meeting but should instead be bound to a stone and thrown into the bay as a sacrifice to the Drowned God.
"I told Lord Greyjoy he need not blow the horn himself, but he ultimately decided to take the risk. He was a warrior, and he paid the price for his courage."
The man accused of being a demon defended himself in loud, perfect Common Tongue—Daenerys had noticed him already. She had traveled across half of Essos but had never seen anyone like him: he was a head taller than Daario and more than three times as broad at the waist. His belly was large enough to fit her entire curled-up body, and his face was covered in a tangled, bone-white beard like the mane of an albino lion.
His skin was black—not the nut-brown of the Summer Islanders or the reddish-brown of a Dothraki Khal, but pure black. Blacker than coal, blacker than obsidian, blacker than a raven's wing... He looks like he's been burned by fire, Daenerys thought. The red tattoos covering his cheeks and forehead looked like leaping flames, and his fresh red robes made his identity clear: a follower of the Red God.
"Lies! You must have used evil magic to control Captain Victarion's mind; otherwise, he never would have done something so suicidal!"
"Friends," Petyr coughed, interrupting the quarrel with displeasure. "I don't understand the details of your conflict, but I must kindly remind you all that this is the Queen's council chamber, and you are meeting her for the first time."
This shut them up. The two Ironborn who had stood up glared at the red priest with eyes of fire before sitting back down resentfully. The priest, however, sat calmly from start to finish, as if the other two didn't exist, watching Daenerys with a gaze of intense interest.
Daenerys knew well the attraction her beauty held for men, but the red priest's gaze contained no lust. Instead, he looked at her like a rare treasure, full of fanaticism and joy. It made her slightly uncomfortable, yet for some reason, it didn't stir the sleeping dragon within—she couldn't bring herself to be angry.
The Queen shifted slightly in her chair and asked, "Those two are members of the Iron Fleet. So... Lord Priest, why are you here, and why are you at odds with them?"
"I am Moqorro. As you see, I come from the Red Temple of Volantis, a faithful servant of the Lord of Light. I was dispatched by the High Priest Benerro to provide guidance and aid to you—the Prince who was Promised." The dark giant puffed out his chest with a solemn expression. "The night is dark and full of terrors. A pair of pale eyes watches you while you remain unaware; the servants of the Great Other plot to overthrow you. You are in a place of peril... yet in the west of Essos—in the land where you were born—an iron chair that is destined to be yours awaits your royal return. A final battle that you are destined to win awaits your joining. In the most dangerous lands of the far north, the most powerful follower you could ever gain, one of the three heads of the dragon, is bearing the responsibility that should be yours, struggling to hold the line that protects us all, in desperate need of your aid. You have little time left; you must seize every second and move to the place where you were always meant to be!"
Moqorro had shown many extraordinary qualities since coming ashore, representing the Red Faith which held great influence in many Free Cities. This was why Petyr had allowed him into the first group to meet the Queen. But had he known Moqorro only intended to spout this typical alarmist, mystical gibberish to Daenerys, he would have ordered the Unsullied to bar the man from the pyramid long ago.
But it was too late to rebuke him now. The Hand of the Queen could only knit his brows, hoping the young girl he served wouldn't be so easily swindled.
"I thank you for your warning and counsel," Daenerys replied, much to Littlefinger's satisfaction. She remained composed, giving only a polite nod before turning to the other two. "Master Nute, and your companion... I will not hide the joy and gratitude I feel seeing you have come so far to aid me. Can you explain who this Captain Victarion you mentioned is, and what exactly happened between you?"
The two Ironborn sailors looked at each other before Nute the Barber spoke: "Your Grace—two years ago, Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands who rose against the Usurper's house, died unexpectedly. By the will of the Drowned God, we reopened the ancient Kingsmoot to decide on a successor. In the end, Euron Greyjoy won the support of the Ironborn and ascended the Seastone Chair."
"King Euron loathes the Usurper and his brothers' decadent and cruel rule; he has always missed the peace and stability of the Seven Kingdoms under the Targaryen dynasty. So, upon hearing you were in Slaver's Bay, he dispatched his brother—Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet—to lead us here to bring the Queen home," the other sailor added. "The Ironborn are doing everything possible to drain the strength of the false kings Stannis and the Pretender Aegon and their supporters. We have made all secret preparations; the moment you return to Westeros, we can rise for you immediately—to retake the Iron Throne and avenge the usurpation and the destruction of your house."
"Touching loyalty, but wait a moment." Petyr, being who he was, easily found the flaw in their story. "Euron rose via the Kingsmoot, so he is now the King of the Iron Islands?"
The two Iron Fleet representatives exchanged an awkward glance and hesitantly admitted as much.
"Oh, that is quite a problem. Pray tell, this King of the Iron Islands: he sends a fleet to show favor to the Queen, so what does he want? Gold and jewels probably don't interest him—does he want recognition of the Iron Islands as an independent kingdom? No one who sits on the Iron Throne would agree to that; they would be cursed forever for fracturing the Seven Kingdoms." Petyr stared sharply at the sailors. "Or—did he take the title of King as a mere expediency for rebellion, and will he lay down his crown and kneel the day the Queen returns to her throne?"
"That... King Euron did not explain in detail when we departed. We dare not answer for him," Nute replied, sweating. "But isn't there a way to solve this? King Euron is in his prime and unwed—if the Queen were willing to wed the King of the Iron Islands, the question of whether Westeros would be divided would disappear, wouldn't it?"
Petyr looked at Daenerys with a knowing smile. "Then everything is clear—the Ironborn aren't supporting you out of nostalgia for the Targaryen dynasty. What they want are the three dragons, the Iron Throne, and you. The Queen's husband would, naturally, be the King of Westeros."
Daenerys nodded. She was no longer the naive girl Magister Illyrio had sold to Khal Drogo. She understood that in this world, nothing is given without a price. This Euron she had never met had a massive appetite, but he had proactively shown goodwill. As for the price, it could always be negotiated.
"Then tell me, where is this Lord Victarion Greyjoy now? Was he wounded in battle and is recovering in the city?"
After a few seconds of silence in the room, the dark-skinned red priest answered the question.
"He is dead. Killed by the dragonflame of one of your three dragons, during a foolish attempt to tame it."
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