A Dance With Dragons
alcoves and grottoes built around a central courtyard where a trellis of flowering vines threw intricate patterns across the flagstone floor and green and purple moss grew between the stones. Slave girls scurried through light and shadow, bearing flagons of ale and wine and some iced green drink that smelled of mint. One table in twenty was occupied at this hour of the morning.
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
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