A Feast for Dragons

together. Penny gave a squeak of fright. “That game
won’t do,” Tyrion told her, gritting his teeth. “Sorry. I don’t know what
game—”
    “I do.” Penny kissed him.
    It was an awkward kiss, rushed, clumsy. But it took him
utterly by surprise. His hands jerked up and grabbed hold of her shoulders to
shove her away. Instead he hesitated, then pulled her closer, gave her a
squeeze. Her lips were dry, hard, closed up tighter than a miser’s purse.
A
small mercy
, thought Tyrion. This was nothing he had wanted. He liked
Penny, he pitied Penny, he even admired Penny in a way, but he did not desire
her. He had no wish to hurt her, though; the gods and his sweet sister had
given her enough pain. So he let the kiss go on, holding her gently by the
shoulders. His own lips stayed firmly shut. The
Selaesori Qhoran
rolled and shuddered around them.
    Finally she pulled back an inch or two. Tyrion could see his
own reflection shining in her eyes.
Pretty eyes
, he thought,
but he saw other things as well.
A lot of fear, a little
hope … but not a bit of lust. She does not want me, no more than I
want her
.
    When she lowered her head, he took her under the chin and
raised it up again. “We cannot play that game, my lady.” Above the thunder
boomed, close at hand now.
    “I never meant … I never kissed a boy before,
but … I only thought, what if we drown, and I … I …”
    “It was sweet,” lied Tyrion, “but I am married. She was with
me at the feast, you may remember her. Lady Sansa.”
    “Was she your wife? She … she was very
beautiful …”
    And false. Sansa, Shae, all my
women … Tysha was the only one who ever loved me. Where do whores go?
“A lovely girl,” said Tyrion, “and we were joined beneath the eyes of gods and
men. It may be that she is lost to me, but until I know that for a certainty I
must be true to her.”
    “I understand.” Penny turned her face away from his.
    My perfect woman
, Tyrion thought bitterly.
One
still young enough to believe such blatant lies
.
    The hull was creaking, the deck moving, and Pretty was squealing
in distress. Penny crawled across the cabin floor on her hands and knees,
wrapped her arms around the sow’s head, and murmured reassurance to her.
Looking at the two of them, it was hard to know who was comforting whom. The
sight was so grotesque it should have been hilarious, but Tyrion could not even
find a smile.
The girl deserves better than a pig
, he thought.
An
honest kiss, a little kindness, everyone deserves that much, however big or
small
. He looked about for his wine cup, but when he found it all the
rum had spilled.
Drowning is bad enough
, he reflected sourly,
but
drowning sad and sober, that’s too cruel
.
    In the end, they did not drown … though there were
times when the prospect of a nice, peaceful drowning had a certain appeal. The
storm raged for the rest of that day and well into the night. Wet winds howled
around them and waves rose like the fists of drowned giants to smash down on
their decks. Above, they learned later, a mate and two sailors were swept
overboard, the ship’s cook was blinded when a kettle of hot grease flew up into
his face, and the captain was thrown from the sterncastle to the main deck so
violently he broke both legs. Below, Crunch howled and barked and snapped at
Penny, and Pretty Pig began to shit again, turning the cramped, damp cabin into
a sty. Tyrion managed to avoid retching his way through all of this, chiefly
thanks to the lack of wine. Penny was not so fortunate, but he held her anyway
as the ship’s hull creaked and groaned alarmingly around them, like a cask
about to burst.
    Nearby midnight the winds finally died away, and the sea
grew calm enough for Tyrion to make his way back up onto deck. What he saw
there did not reassure him. The cog was drifting on a sea of dragonglass
beneath a bowl of stars, but all around the storm raged on. East, west, north,
south, everywhere he looked, the clouds rose up like black mountains, their
tumbled slopes and collossal cliffs alive with blue and purple lightning. No
rain was falling, but the decks were slick and wet underfoot.
    Tyrion could hear someone screaming from below, a thin, high
voice hysterical with fear. He could hear Moqorro too. The red priest stood on
the forecastle facing the storm, his staff raised above his head as he boomed a
prayer. Amidships, a dozen sailors and two of the fiery fingers were struggling
with tangled lines and