A Feast for Dragons

enough to shit their breeches right along
with him. But anything to keep the bloody bastards sweet
.
    Jorah Mormont finally took pity on Tyrion’s struggles and
pulled him to his feet. “You looked a fool.”
    That was the intent
. “It is hard to look a
hero when mounted on a pig.”
    “That must be why I stay off pigs.”
    Tyrion unbuckled his helm, twisted it off, and spat a gobbet
of bloody pink phlegm over the side. “It feels as though I bit through half my
tongue.”
    “Next time bite harder.” Ser Jorah shrugged. “Truth be told,
I’ve seen worse jousters.”
    Was that praise?
“I fell off the bloody pig
and bit my tongue. What could possibly be worse than that?”
    “Getting a splinter through your eye and dying.”
    Penny had vaulted off her dog, a big grey brute called Crunch.
“The thing is not to joust well, Hugor.” She was always careful to call him
Hugor where anyone might hear. “The thing is to make them laugh and throw
coins.”
    Poor payment for the blood and bruises
,
Tyrion thought, but he kept that to himself as well. “We failed at that as
well. No one threw coins.”
Not a penny, not a groat
.
    “They will when we get better.” Penny pulled off her helm.
Mouse-brown hair spilled down to her ears. Her eyes were brown too, beneath a
heavy shelf of brow, her cheeks smooth and flushed. She pulled some acorns from
a leather bag for Pretty Pig. The sow ate them from her hand, squealing
happily. “When we perform for Queen Daenerys the silver will rain down, you’ll
see.”
    Some of the sailors were shouting at them and slamming their
heels against the deck, demanding another tilt. The ship’s cook was the
loudest, as always. Tyrion had learned to despise that man, even if he was the
only half-decent
cyvasse
player on the cog. “You see, they
liked us,” Penny said, with a hopeful little smile. “Shall we go again, Hugor?”
    He was on the point of refusing when a shout from one of the
mates spared him the necessity. It was midmorning, and the captain wanted the
boats out again. The cog’s huge striped sail hung limply from her mast, as it
had for days, but he was hopeful that they could find a wind somewhere to the
north. That meant rowing. The boats were small, however, and the cog was large;
towing it was hot, sweaty, exhausting work that left the hands blistered and
the back aching, and accomplished nothing. The crew hated it. Tyrion could not
blame them. “The widow should have put us on a galley,” he muttered sourly. “If
someone could help me out of these bloody planks, I would be grateful. I think
I may have a splinter through my crotch.”
    Mormont did the duty, albeit with poor grace. Penny
collected her dog and pig and led them both below. “You might want to tell your
lady to keep her door closed and barred when she’s inside,” Ser Jorah said as
he was undoing the buckles on the straps that joined the wooden breastplate to
the backplate. “I’m hearing too much talk about ribs and hams and bacon.”
    “That pig is half her livelihood.”
    “A Ghiscari crew would eat the dog as well.” Mormont pulled
the breastplate and backplate apart. “Just tell her.”
    “As you wish.” His tunic was soaked with sweat and clinging
to his chest. Tyrion plucked at it, wishing for a bit of breeze. The wooden
armor was as hot and heavy as it was uncomfortable. Half of it looked to be old
paint, layer on layer on layer of it, from a hundred past repaintings. At
Joffrey’s wedding feast, he recalled, one rider had displayed the direwolf of
Robb Stark, the other the arms and colors of Stannis Baratheon. “We will need
both animals if we’re to tilt for Queen Daenerys,” he said. If the sailors took
it in their heads to butcher Pretty Pig, neither he nor Penny could hope to
stop them … but Ser Jorah’s longsword might give them pause, at
least.
    “Is that how you hope to keep your head, Imp?”
    “Ser Imp, if you please. And yes. Once Her Grace knows my
true worth, she’ll cherish me. I am a lovable little fellow, after all, and I
know many useful things about my kin. But until such time I had best keep her
amused.”
    “Caper as you like, it won’t wash out your crimes. Daenerys
Targaryen is no silly child to be diverted by japes and tumbles. She will deal
with you justly.”
    Oh, I hope not
. Tyrion studied Mormont with
his mismatched eyes. “And how will she welcome you, this just queen? A warm
embrace, a girlish titter, a headsman’s axe?” He