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Published:2020-04-25Updated:2026-04-06Words:409,591Chapters:71/?Comments:5,537Kudos:6,020Bookmarks:1,659Hits:467,009
The Stormborn and the Stormbringer
SkilledWarriorKiwi
Chapter 27: HEAR ME ROAR
Notes:
Ghidorah is still around Westeros Drogon size. His storm powers are a lot stronger here 'cause there already was a sea storm around Meereen. He basically flew in and kicked it into overdrive and he's lurking in the clouds like that scene from KoM
Oh and I looked up a bunch of soundclips of Ghidorah and I really like how entirely unnatural he sounds. Like a machine chattering or even techno. In KoM they got a really good balance of mixing his classic sounds with their new ones. Like compare him with how the GoT dragons sound and Ghidorah just seems so weird and abnormal in comparison which fits a lot since he's a literal alien.
I keep watching this video of lightning strikes- I think the noise/brightness combo would be quite horrific in the middle of it, especially if the storm was actively malicious towards you
Also before anyone asks, Tyrion will not be Hand of the Queen in my fic lol
Chapter Text
She has a dragon. But even if what they say is true it will be years before it is fully grown. Then there will be no where to hide.
The solid gold collar chafed around Tyrion's throat and more of the hue was colouring the tent, the clothes, even his Yunkai owner Yezzan zo Qaggaz, more widely know as the Yellow Whale. Said Wise Master who was wrought with the pale mare but Tyrion could only focus on the tiny dragons etched into the length of one of the wooden chests. Tiny, winged, horned, spitting fire. Even if those of Old Ghis hated the dragonlords of Valyria they still were enthralled by their beasts, as all men were.
It was all he could think of, looking at the tiny little creatures carved in glossy wood. Varys' words, spoken low and solemn upon the sunny wall of King's Landing. Tyrion had felt a shiver then and felt that shiver run up his spine once again remembering the words. Why he thought of them now he did not know, as he was currently stuck in a stinking tent with his owner and fellow slaves upon the fields outside of Meereen, along the winding curves of the Skahazadhan river.
The masters army had marched after slaying the Butcher King, gathering more and more owners and slaves alike as they traveled back through to Yunkai and were now laying siege to the city of Meereen. The stomp of boots, the distant creak of the siege weapons, hammers forging weapons, yelling orders and the low hum of voices, it was a constant clamour in the sprawling camp. Even the nights brought no relief to the noise and people. But still, there was no sign of this dragon the last Targaryen had or even the silver queen herself. If rumours among the camp spoke true then the queen fled Meereen the instant she caught sight of the masters army, abandoning her people the moment she faced retaliation.
Tyrion could not think so, unless this child queen was weak and feeble. She wouldn't have killed so many of the masters and survived the Dothraki if she was but perhaps those were words the army consoled themselves with.
Sieges were dull. All was left was waiting and gossip, for both master and slave alike. His body may be collared but his mind was not. Too bad it didn't come with the ability to clog up what remained of his nose.
When the Yellow Whale fell ill with the pale mare- or bloody flux, as Tyrion knew it -it came down to his favourite slaves, his grotesqueries, to care for him. And thus Tyrion was stuck in a tent stinking of shit and piss and a fat dying man with his fellow dwarf slave Penny, Sweets who was both man and woman, the goat legged boy, the bearded woman and a two-headed girl, in the height of the Essos heat.
He didn't really know when he'd gotten so used to the stench.
"Is he going to die?" Penny asked, voice shrill as she worried at the bells upon her golden collar as the Yellow Whale moaned in the midst of his fever. "Some masters free their slaves when they die."
"Free them to follow them to the grave," Sweets said. "Only the favourites, slitting their throats so they can serve forever in the afterlife."
Favoured over all others, Sweets would be the first to have his throat cut, Tyrion knew.
"The silver queen-" the goat legged boy began.
"Is dead! The dragon took her across the Dothraki Sea and she drowned there!" Sweets cut in angrily.
"You can't drown in grass."
"If we're free we can go look for her," Penny suggested.
Tyrion snorted through the ruin of his nose, a finger tracing the tiny dragon tail etched into the wood. They could use her pig and dog they used to joust to instead go hunting for the dragon, two little adventurers and their noble steeds. The idea was laughable. In the middle of the room the Yellow Whale groaned and more foul brown liquid splattered the bedding. The master was too huge for them to move and always stunk, even before the pale mare came galloping for him. Now it was just more pungent and lingering. Even the copious amounts of perfume did nothing to help.
"We could sail to Qarth," Penny continued, caught up in her wishing. "The three walls there are supposed to be one of the wonders of the world. The streets are paved in jade, my brother said. If we perform in Qarth gold and silver will rain down upon us, it will."
"There are Qartheen ships moored just out here," Tyrion pointed out. Along with the likes of Tolos and New Ghis, and the ships of the Great Masters who'd fled Meereen when Daenerys and her army had first appeared.
"The master will live," Sweets said, ignoring them as he wiped at Yezzan's sweaty brow with a damp cloth. "Some have recovered from the pale mare."
An utter lie but then Sweets seemed to be a slave well fond of their master, well suited and settled in his golden collar. Tyrion was tired of being in the smelly, shit-filled tent.
"The healer said he needed water," Tyrion said. "I'll go fetch some. Penny, come with me."
Tyrion opened the tent flap and ushered her out into the heat of a Meereenese morning, thick and tepid like a swamp. Even so it was a welcome relief from the miasma of sweat, shit, and sickness that throttled the air the inside of Yezzan's palatial pavilion.
In the distance he could easily see the Great Pyramid looming high above Meereen's walls, at eight hundred feet tall it towered over all else even from such a distance. The other pyramids poking over the walls were only half as big but Tyrion could not see the bronze glint of a giant harpy at the apex of the Great Pyramid. The dragon queen must have torn it down when she first took the city.
Fetching water was a slow, arduous journey. Two pails for them both but they did not draw from the great river next to them which flowed out into Slaver's Bay. Instead they headed to the nearest well, making their way through the sprawling army arranged around Meereen. There were also the Six Sisters, the great forty foot trebuchets arranged around on all three sides of the city. Occasionally he heard the distant thump of one of them hurling pale mare riddled corpses off into the city. The first trebuchet they'd made had gotten destroyed by Meereen's own siege weapons set up upon the walls but the army had quickly deduced there was a certain range they were safe beyond yet the Sisters could still reach Meereen.
None paid the two dwarves any mind, they had golden collars of their owner's wealth and a slave was only as important as his master. The Yellow Whale was the richest of all the Yunkai'i Wise Masters, having brought six hundred slaves soldiers with him during the march, and his property was left well alone.
At least while he was alive and Tyrion did not know the disposition of his three potential successors, his nephews who suddenly have many important things to attend to elsewhere when the pale mare appeared outside Meereen.
As he and Penny walked to the well he could see how much the master army had dug in. The dry plains around Meereen were flat and treeless for leagues but choked thick with the slaver armies from various ports and cities and the ships moored along the riverbanks. The Clanker Lords had their slave soldiers drilling in the nearest field with a plethora of spears, shortswords strapped to their waists. They'd been chained ankle to ankle, neck to neck, to prevent them from fleeing should open battle commence. The sound of the rattling chains was harsh and ringing as they marched across the sand in lockstep and formed up with their long spears. There were numerous other slaves around them slotting great ramps of stone beneath scorpions and ballista to aim the weapons skyward in case the dragon queen would return with her beast.
They all feared the sky, most slaves having a crossbow they were clutching tight with quivers of bolts hanging from their belts.
As they passed one of the wagons filled to the brim with scorpion bolts Tyrion could see a single one was easily longer than both his and Penny's height combined. Even taller than the likes of the Mountain, tipped with a great barbed steel head that glittered in the Essosi sun.
If any of those had thought to ask him Tyrion could have told them not to bother with such a thing. Unless one of those long serrated heads managed to find a big reptilian eye then the queen's pet monster was not like to be brought down by such toys. Dragons are not so easy to kill as that, it usually took another of their kind to bring one down. Tickle him with these and you'll only make him angry. The dragons wroth, as the Dornish would say.
They walked past great lines of food being prepared, the reek of roasting meat doing the air no favours in the scorching sun. Thick hulking roasts over fires, spitting pans filled with various spices and soups, and chunky stews. There were various meats but most common were horse and dog.
The army had even set up several whipping posts just beyond the cook stations, one of the slaves having his back flayed free of skin until all showing was crimson twitching muscle and spitting blood. Penny shielded her eyes. Another group of attempted runaway slaves were being used as target practice for the Tolosi slingers, who used soft lead balls in place of stones. One struck a slave in the knee and blew it apart in a shower of gore and screaming until only a tendon kept the leg attached.
Well he won't try to run anymore, Tyrion thought, adjusting his grip on the pails. Penny's face was pale, her eyes affixed on the ground rather than the laughing spectaors and the curses of those who'd wagered good coin that the slinger would miss his shot.
They walked passed the armies of New Ghis, vast enough in number they stretched back over a quarter mile. They were training, shield wall to shield wall while the commanders screamed at the troops in a guttural language Tyrion had no understanding of. Perhaps some would think they were equal to the Unsullied but the New Ghis army were free citizens who served three years, while the eunuch army of the dragon queen's knew nothing else all their life.
Another of the Yunkai'i Wise Masters rode past, the Girl General was mounted upon her white stallion with its crimson mane and followed by her hundred score slave soldiers that she'd bred and trained herself. The Girl General fancied herself Yunkai's own Daenerys Targaryen and was around the same age but as far as Tyrion knew that was the only resemblance the two had.
There were only two wells within distance of Meereen so the wait was always long and most of the slave army had taken to drinking directly from the river. Even before the healers warnings Tyrion knew that had been a foolish idea and the amount of dead being burned or toss into pits were a testament to that. Though the fact that there were any good wells at all within a day's march of the city only went to prove that this queen Daenerys Targaryen was still a guileless innocent where siege and war was concerned. She should have poisoned every well within her reach and salted the earth for good measure. Then all the Yunkish men would be drinking from the river and vomiting and shitting blood. See how long their siege lasts then when even more of them were stricken.
As Tyrion was stuck in the heat with a sweaty gold collar clapped snug around his neck he could only think that by now Griff and Duck and Haldon Halfmaester should be in Westeros with their young prince. Tyrion should have gone with them, to watch his sweet bitch of a sister being beheaded and dear brother hanged. He should've been there to watch it all happen.
But no, I had to have a whore. Being a kinslayer, kingslayer, wasn't enough for me. I needed a wet cunt and wine and now here I am in this sweaty country on the wrong side of the world wearing a collar with tiny golden bells so everyone knows I'm a favoured pet. At least Mormont had the sense to leap overboard when the slavers caught our boat. Better to die at the hands of the Stone Men than this.
He had to wonder if perhaps if he danced right, he could make the bells on his collar chime out the 'Rains of Castamere'. Maybe when the Yellow Whale finally shat himself to death Tyrion could try it out. Just to cheer Sweets up, it would be the decent thing to do.
While they were stuck in the queue for the well with the heat and flies there was naught else to do but listen to the gossip of his fellow slaves. Their masters wouldn't sully themselves with such a menial tasks, after all. Collars of all shape and sizes, sometimes shackles and chains, made of bronze, silver, worn leather and frayed, some studded with gems and pearls, other rusted hoops and tin bells, and others of tassels of silk and ribbons of cloth. A mixture of all types but if any knew the signs of a master then the collar showed it. Tyrion didn't care about to know.
One of the slaves in line, a collar of dark bronze around his wrinkled throat, was eagerly regaling a tale of the dragon queen to a fairly disinterested woman with copper coloured skin with a yoke over her shoulders.
"I heard it myself, that foreign queen feeds children to her dragon," he was insisting. "She also cuts the throats of maidens and young women who displease her, bathing in it each night to keep her skin supple. She's a blood maegi, like all those cursed Valyrian dragonriders before her."
"Isn't the dragon queen naught even pass twenty namedays?" another slave spoke in the line behind him. "Why would she need to keep her skin fair if she's youthful? Not a wrinkled old waterskin like yourself."
The old man scowled even as the woman grinned. Penny stifled a giggle next to him.
"The girl consorts with demons, it is known," the old slaved huffed, seemingly unbothered by everyone sniggering at him. "Her khal killed her brother to make her queen. Then she killed her khal to make herself khaleesi. She practices blood sacrifice, lies as easily as she breathes, turns against her own on a whim and any who dare say she isn't the fairest in Essos. Cuts her handmaiden's throats from ear to ear if they speak a word against her and feeds their bodies to her beast. She's broken truces, tortured envoys and killed her citizens whenever the mood strikes her. Her father was mad too, they say. It runs in the blood."
"They do say she is beautiful," a redheaded slave said. He sounded more wistful than anything, obviously uncaring to those rumours of blood sacrifice. "And that her dragon is gold. A silver queen with a golden dragon. And it has three heads like the banner she flies."
"The girl is monstrous as her fell beast," the old man ranted again, sounding like a scolding septon.
"I have heard she has a monstrous carnal appetite," another slave added, this one spindly and tall and reminding Tyrion of Littlefinger, if the man had gotten a portion of his face torn off. "One of her captains comes of a line where the men have foot-long members but even he's not big enough for her hungry cunt. She rode with the Dothraki and grew accustomed to being fucked by stallions, so now no man can fill her. She mates with the likes of animals and children and even that dragon of hers."
"The wise and trusting words of Volantis, I would gather," the woman said, still looking entirely unconvinced as did near everyone else in the queue except the old man who'd nodded along with Littlefinger mummer. The rumours just reminded Tyrion of the things said about his sweet sister and it made him grin. King's Landing or a siege camp outside a city in Essos, people were the same everywhere it seemed. Penny meanwhile looked almost horrified by what she was hearing. The little woman never seemed to fail at being shocked by how cruel the world was.
"The dragon queen is gone, that much is known," the old man argued. "Even if you don't believe the rest. You slaves think she's some gallant protector riding to your rescue but the moment she saw the masters army she fled away on that dragon as fast as it would carry her."
"Us slaves?" said the woman, dark eyes narrowed. "You wear a collar too, in case you have forgotten."
"Ghazdor's collar," the old man boasted, tapping a withered finger against it and looking so smug. "Known him since we was born, we're all but brothers we are. Slaves like you lot, sweepings and armwork and prancing around out of Astapor and Yunkai, you whine about being free and whine about your collars, but I wouldn't give that accursed dragon queen my collar if she offered to suck my cock for it. Man has the right master, that's all the better. It's how it's been for all time and will always be."
There was a lot of unfriendly looks offered to the man and Tyrion half expected the woman to use her yoke against him. Instead she just scowled and looked away, agitation making her body tense. Tyrion could understand, in part. The most insidious thing about bondage was how easy it was to grow accustomed to it, how the heaviness of the collar around the throat simply grew into a familiar weight. Tyrion had noticed the lives of the slaves seemed to not be so different from those servants at Casterly Rock and King's Landing. Some slaveowners were brutal and vicious, yet many Westerosi lords and stewards could do the same. Most of the Yunkai'i treated their chattels decently enough, so long as they did their jobs and caused no trouble and this old man in his rusted collar, with his fierce loyalty to his owner, was not at all atypical. Many of the slaves tended to eat better and be granted great lodgings then many of the smallfolk in Westeros would have so.
Depending on if they were the favourites, of course.
The Littlefinger mimic was talking now, his voice high and annoying and irritating Tyrion the more he spoke. "She's long gone on the wind. When the masters came to Astapor they all spoke how she was marching down the south with her dragon and yet she never came. Same for Yunkai. And how she isn't even here. I heard even the envoys didn't get to meet her, just her slaves and some old Westerosi man. I heard it from my sister's lad, who's bound to Lady Caerio who's niece to one of the Pahl's Wise Masters. The dragon queen is long gone. The sight of the masters armies sent that bitch running."
Queens were fickle cunts, Tyrion knew. Maybe she ran off to live with the stinking horselords of the Dothraki once again, Tyrion couldn't say for sure. The Wise Masters had set up an auction block for slaves being brought and sold by the various slavers flocked outside just beyond Meereen's walls and he'd even heard tell a khalasar was not far off, heading to the city to buy and sell from their own hoard.
"Her dragon might kill them all when she returns," the redhead was saying. "She broke the masters so easily last time, why would she run away now?"
"You watch your tongue least you want to be whipped or worse, boy," another of the slaves hissed at him. The redheaded boy scowled but did not say anything else.
The conversation seemed to die then, most of the slaves ever brooding or, like the Littlefinger mummer and old man, speaking more of the strange and unnatural things the dragon queen did. Tyrion barely paid attention as they shuffled along the queue, flies buzzing around them and the sun scorching above them.
It was something many of the slaves still clung to, that this silver queen would come forth from wherever she'd flown, that she'd once again smash the Yunkai'i, and break their chains. Tyrion scoffed under his breath at the thought, dragging his pails with him as they shuffled up the queue. He'd bet the dragon queen would then bake them all a sweet lemon pie and perhaps kiss their wounds, if the slaves whispers were to be believed. He had no faith in royal rescues. The likes of Aegon and Balerion were just tales these days.
Though maybe that was where the queen had fled to, now that Tyrion thought it over. He'd thought he'd steered that short tempered boy west but what if not.
Let her hear that her brother Rhaegar's murdered son is still alive, that this brave boy has raised the dragon standard of her forebears in Westeros once more, that he is fighting a desperate war to avenge his father and reclaim the Iron Throne for House Targaryen, hard-pressed on every side and she will fly to your side as fast as wind and water can carry her. You are the last of her line and this Mother of Dragons, this Breaker of Chains, is above all else a rescuer. The girl who drowned the slaver cities in blood rather than leave strangers to their chains can scarcely abandon her own brother's son in his hour of peril.
The words he'd said to Young Griff, that so-called Aegon Targaryen, rang through his mind as clearly as if he were standing upon the deck of Shy Maid again. Perhaps that was where the dragon queen had disappeared to. Rather than marching straight west Aegon had managed to reach out to his aunt and she had answered.
Maybe she'd had enough of the sweaty, stinking, sun-baked country of Essos and chose to just leave back for Westeros now she had kin waiting for her. If that was the case then Tyrion got his wish to see King's Landing in rubble, only he wasn't there to actually see it. Instead he was stuck in a siege camp, an amusing slave to a dying fat man.
The air was as thick as wet wool when they finally reached the well, the slave drawing up the bucket until he and Penny had four full pails of water. Short legs meant he knocked the pails against himself, sloshing the cool water against him as he staggered away. It was a welcome reprieve to the sweaty weather and Tyrion had lived at a port city long enough to know the wet heat would most likely bring yet another sea storm to them.
Tyrion eyed the nearby tents; in the far distance one was aflame, burning the nights dead. But he caught a symbol and turned to Penny, jerking his chin as he said, "This way."
She looked puzzled, "That isn't the way we came."
"Nonetheless it's the way we'll go." Tyrion went off without bothered to look back. She'd follow him.
Though she did not stop complaining, "It's not this way. We go back here."
"Nay, it's here."
"Those are the sellswords. We need to get back to our Wise Master. If we try to leave we'll get punished, like those other slaves," Penny's voice was anguished and Tyrion resisted the urge to snarl at her whimpering.
"We haven't left the camp," Tyrion said instead, dropping his pails to the ground when they got near one of the guards, a lean man carrying a spear over one shoulder.
Naturally two dwarves weren't welcomed and it took Tyrion several tries to convince the guards to take them to the camp's commander. There were threats, scoffing and general annoyance until they were both dragged to the largest tent among the sellswords, painted and cracked from many years underneath the sun and following campaigns.
"We caught them creeping into camp, sir," the guard roughly threw Penny on the ground while another kicked Tyrion forward.
"Runaways," the other said. "With pails. Not even a good vintage, just water."
There were three men in the tent, one tall and slender the other plump and balding and the last broad and wrinkled. The last was the one Tyrion sought.
Brown Ben Plumm, commander of the Second Sons. The old sellsword had an amiable look to him, especially when he smiled. Creasing the wrinkles in his face deep, framing his bristly bear of grey and white. A good mask, Tyrion decided. Looking the part of everyone's favourite uncle. Full of chortles and friendly cuffs and rough cheered wisdom. It was a good mask indeed but his smiles never touched his eyes. Greed, hungry but wary.
And a traitor to the dragon queen, if rumours were to be believed.
Tyrion had met him twice before the Meereenese war camp- when he and Penny were sold at the auction block and Ben Plumm was outbid and after Tyrion performed for the Yellow Whale and his companions, when he won cyvasse against the old sellsword and earned his master gold.
Though Brown Ben Plumm had no interest in speaking what he thought to be a disobedient slave, simply waving them both off with a, "I want no trouble with your master, be off."
"I'm not here for that. Though if you're up for another game of cyvasse, I'll indulge."
The sellsword gave Tyrion a long considering look before dismissing the guards back to their posts. As Tyrion suspected when Plumm tried to buy him at the auction block, the man knew who he was.
"Speak your mind, dwarf," Plumm gave him a considering look while the other two sellswords looked skeptical, "Before I chose to cut your head off for wasting my time."
"You want my head intact but you knew who I was the moment you saw me, even a world away. And I know you as well, my lord," said Tyrion, face stretching into a grotesque grin. "You're more sunbaked than the Plumm's at Westeros but nonetheless that's where you hail from. House Plumm is sworn to Casterly Rock, and as it happens I know a bit of its history by greatest chance and luckiest of things. Your branch sprouted from a a little seed spat across the Narrow Sea I'd wager. A younger son of Viserys Plumm, another thing to bet upon. The dragon queen was fond of you, was she not?"
That seemed to amuse the sellsword, his mouth a quirk as he said, "And who told you that?"
"Nobody, the world's wisest man. But she had you since Yunkai, didn't she? Yet now you stand against her. We find ourselves in peculiar places, fate or chance or stupidity or luck or the gods. Who knows. But that's neither here nor there, but instead I bring an offer."
The tall man laughed, "What can a stunted slave offer?"
"As your captain knows, I'm no average slave as he is well aware. And you will find, Lord Plumm, that I can be very generous to my friends. Why don't you bring out that cyvasse set over there and we can have a game while I tell you all about it? And my throat is dry, some wine would be good as I have a great deal of talking to do."
Tyrion won again, just as he had the first times he played against Plumm. The thin and fat sellswords, Kasporio and Inkpots respectively, initially doubted Tyrion's claim of being heir to Casterly Rock before Kasporio offered to cut off Tyrion's head to give to the Crown's upon Cersei's bounty. Inkpots had agreed only for Plumm to ignore them both and continue with another game after laying out his terms. If It either wanted to hack off his head Tyrion wouldn't be able to do much about it. Penny had fallen asleep in the corner of the tent with her fat pig and hound, her soft snores heard beneath their conversation and clack of the cyvasse pieces upon the board.
The wine was good, rich and the colour of freshly cut liver. He swallowed down another mouthful before reaching across the board, picking up his dragon. "The most powerful piece in the game," he announced, as he snatched away one of Plumm's elephants. "And Daenerys Targaryen has one, it's said."
"A single one," Plumm allowed, "Against thrice thousand enemies and who's mother left upon its back on the eve of the assault outside Meereen's gates and hasn't returned even with her city besieged. So she is indeed the mother of dragons."
"One would think that would make you less inclined to betray her."
"Nay, I meant she treats the beast as if it truly is her child and has a woman's weak heart when it comes to letting her son go to war," Plumm said, sliding one of his pieces across the board. "She naught had the beast fight except killing Meereen's champion. She fears it being hurt."
"She does only have one," Tyrion agreed. "At the very least Aegon had spares when Meraxes was shot down. Is that why you turned tail?"
"A dragon is a weapon of war, not a babe suckling on the teat. She refuses to use the best weapon available to her and now she's outmatched by the master's armies and has vanished into the wind. There is no point in fighting for a queen if she isn't even here and leaves upon a roll of dice whenever the mood takes her fancy. A woman's whims are like the wind and gold means nothing if you're dead in the dirt."
"Such loyalty she invokes."
"Lannisters would know about such a thing, wouldn't they?"
Off to the side Inkpots was finishing off the mountain of parchment. Terms of their contract with such an iron hand Tyrion found himself unduly impressed with the sellswords. Not many could read and write, much less write something more fitting for the Iron Bank of Braavos.
The sea storm was spitting rain down upon them as dusk approached, the sky pregnant with grey clouds. It did nothing for the heat, just making everything even more sweaty and stinky and disgusting. Tyrion would have to scrub himself several times over in a scalding bath for any hope of scrubbing the stench of the siege off his skin. The Second Son's camp was too far to benefit from the sea breeze sweeping across the landscape, instead just bringing the stink of the army along with it. In the setting sun he could spy the bright flashes off the Bay, as the storm shifted to one thick with lightning, even through the thick canvas of Plumm's command tent.
If Tyrion was a superstitious man he would wager it was a bold omen, fighting against a city of Daenerys Stormborn even as a sea storm closed upon them.
Then Inkpots shoved the beginning of the parchment pile underneath Tyrion's nonexistent nose, nearly toppling over the board and making wine slosh around in his goblet. Tyrion sighed.
"Where is the trust? The friendship what I offer?"
"Sign," Kasporio snapped.
"And this is Volantis ink, works just as long and clear as true maester's black," Inkpots said as he handed over a quill. "Just sign and I'll do the rest."
"Such gentleness. Forgive me if I take care to read through the terms first," Tyrion said, taking the parchment after another aggressive shove from Inkpots. The sellsword scowled but Plumm waved him on.
"They're much of the same except the bottom last. We'll speak upon that once you're done with the rest."
The dwarf laughed and signed the parchment in the thick rich black ink. Tyrion of House Lannister. The words were stark and wet. As he passed it left to Inkpots, he shuffled through the other thick pile of parchment. "There are fifty? Sixty? I'd thought there were five hundred Second Sons for you, dear Plumm."
"Five hundred thirteen at present," Inkpots said. "When you sign everything proper, we will be five hundred fourteen."
"So only one in ten receives a note? That hardly seems fair. I thought you were all share-and-share-alike in the free companies." He signed another sheet.
Brown Ben chuckled. "Oh, all share. But not alike. The Second Sons are not unlike a family ..."
"...and every family has its drooling cousins." Tyrion signed another note, even as he briefly thought of Orson Lannister and the beetles. The parchment crinkled yet the ink did not run as he slid it toward the pudgy paymaster. Then he took up the next sheaf of parchment. He dipped his quill in the inkpot. Tyrion of House Lannister, he scratched along the line, promising to pay the bearer of the note one hundred golden dragons. Every stroke of the quill left him poorer. Or would, if he were not a beggar to begin with. One day he might rue these signatures but not this day. Tyrion blew on the wet ink, slid the parchment to the paymaster, and signed the one beneath. And again. And again. And again.
"This wounds me deeply, I will have you know," he told them between signatures. "In Westeros, the word of a Lannister is considered good as gold. A Lannister always pays his debts."
"You're not in Westeros, least you've forgotten that collar we cut off you," Kasporio said. It wasn't a weight Tyrion missed, even if he hadn't particularly like the sharp dagger near his throat when the Tyrioshi had undone the lock. The flesh beneath was raw and red but Tyrion didn't mind.
"On this side of the Narrow Sea we prefer physical proof of contracts, words are wind and are easily lost or forgotten. Now you'll remember your debt indeed. A sellswords word is useless and that's what you'll be until you sign," Plumm told him. He was enjoying it, Tyrion could tell. He'd thought he was wringing every bit he could from Tyrion and he had no intention on letting the sellsword think other. If he ever got to Westeros and back to Casterly Rock he'd had all the gold he needed to make sure of his promise.
His mismatched gaze ran along the newest sheet thrust towards him and now Tyrion was promising to pay the bearer one thousand golden dragons. He laughed and signed. And did so again with the next one.
"So," he said as he was scrawling, "What will be my duties with the company? As a glorious Second Son."
"Fodder for arrows, maybe," Kasporio suggested.
"You will work with Inkpots," said Brown Ben Plumm.
Inkpots nodded as he handed over another sheet. "Keeping books, counting coin, writing contracts and letters."
"Oh joy. I love books."
Outside another brilliant flash of lightning before the thunderous boom. It felt right outside the tent and made the table shiver and the inkpot rattle. The rain was still scattered overhead, bouncing off the canvas of the tent.
Tyrion signed again.
Brown Ben's note was the last, the final nail in the crate as Tyrion could see. That one had been inscribed upon a sheepskin scroll and spoke plainly of what was expected. One hundred thousand golden dragons, fifty hides of fertile land, a castle, and a lordship. Brown Ben Plumm's aid did not come cheaply. Tyrion rubbed at his scar and wondered if he ought to make a show of indignation. Perhaps he should pout and protest, maybe refuse and attempt to bargain. But Tyrion had traveled far and he was sick of mummery so instead he grimaced, dipped the quill within the ink and signed, and handed the scroll back to Plumm.
Done and done.
"Good," Plumm said as he scanned the parchment before adding his own signature. "Inkpots, bring the book."
A tome more like, as thick and fat as the book for the Kingsguard. Name and dates stretching back centuries.
"The Second Sons are amongst the oldest of the free companies in Essos," Inkpots said as if Tyrion were a child and he a scolding septon, "This is the fourth book. The names of every man to serve with us are written here. When they joined, where they fought, how long they served, the manner of their deaths - all in the book. You will find many famous names in here, some from your Seven Kingdoms and from Houses long in the dust. Aegor Rivers served a year with us before he left to found the Golden Company. Bittersteel, you Westerosi call him. The Bright Prince, Aerion Targaryen, he was also a Second Son. Along with Rodrik Stark, the Wandering Wolf. No, not that ink. Here, use this." He unstoppered a new pot and set it down.
"Red?"
"Used to be we signed in blood but it didn't stay on the parchment well. So we use red ink in place," Inkpots explained. The tent rattled from another roar of lightning and for a brief moment Tyrion could see the silhouette of a horse tethered outside.
Tyrion signed, the red ink glittering up at him. Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock. Above the rain increased to a steady downpour.
He tossed aside the quill, "Done and done. Is that all that you require of me, good ser? Don't I need to swear an oath? Strangle a puppy? Kill a baby? Suck the captain's cock?"
"Suck whatever you like." Inkpots turned the book around and dusted the page with a bit of fine sand to settle the ink. "For most of us the signature suffices, but I would hate to disappoint a new brother-in-arms. Welcome to the Second Sons, Lord Tyrion."
Lord Tyrion. He'd forgotten how good it was to be called that.
In the distance he heard yelling followed by the panicked trumpeting of elephants. That caught all three sellswords attentions, Kasporio grumbling something under his breath before he left the tent. Inkpots bustled himself with putting away the book and mountain of parchment, stoppering the pots and cleaning aside the quills. Plumm continued to watch Tyrion though he could not know what the old man was thinking.
Perhaps that was why the dragon queen had run away. She'd gotten sick of the doddering old men around her. Ser Barristan had been reported to be by her side every since his stupid oaf of a sister dismissed him. If Tyrion had instead chosen to swagger up to Meereen's gates and knocked on the door and sought out Barristan the Bold, the old knight would've recognized him instantly. He probably would've snipped Tyrion's head right off his shoulders, however. News of his kingslaying and kinslayer would've most likely crept across the Narrow Sea and Barristan was well known for loathing oathbreakers.
Oh well, that time was past and the silver queen was gone and her pet monster with her. Where or why Tyrion had no idea but now he was a sellsword and lacked a collar around his throat.
Though some were without appreciation, as Penny displayed. She'd been sullen and unhappy when her own collar was removed, even with her pig and dog reunited with her. Tyrion thought some gratitude wouldn't be remiss.
The thunder was getting so loud and consistent it was ringing around in his head. Tyrion supposed it could be worse, he could have a hang over in accompanying being tipsy. As it was the flashes of lightning beyond the tent was distracting, especially in the dead of night.
His attempts to rouse Penny from her brooding tantrum were interrupted by a messenger from the Wise Masters, demanding Plumm help them secure one of the banks as the winds and darkness thickened. If Meereen wished to launch a counter attack the cover of darkness would be invaluable and the Six Sisters perhaps vulnrable. Utterly confusing true, for at least with the Blackwater Tyrion was well aware of his foes and where they were. With Meereen people could slither from the gates and if the fighting escalated throughout the camp it would be pandemonium.
Distantly Tyrion was aware of those strange muffled thuds. He was used to the Six Sisters constantly hurling corpses into the city but he'd usually been able to recognize each catapult from noise alone but this was new. He shook it off, reasoning the noise of the thunder, lightning and rain interfering with everything. Instead he had to go to the smith, fetch some armour for himself and Penny. They'd look ridiculous but better an ugly helmet than having a skull caved in.
"We need to fetch armour and weapons if we're playing at mercenary," Tyrion told her, just shy of dragging her away. "A sword or something to lop off heads."
"I don't want to cut off heads."
"Nor should you. With our height keep your cuts below the knee. Calf, hamstring, ankle...even giants fall if you slice their feet off. Once they're down, they're no bigger than you. A knife through the eye will kill them as much as anything else."
Penny looked as though she was about to cry, her nose wrinkling up. "Last night I dreamed my brother was alive again. We were jousting before some great lord and his laughing entourage, we was riding Crunch and Pretty Pig, and men were throwing roses and gold at us. We were so happy and it was so sunny."
Tyrion slapped her.
It was a soft blow, all in all, a little flick of the wrist with hardly any force behind it. A bat a cat might offer a kitten. It did not even leave a mark upon her cheek. But her eyes filled with tears all the same and she recoiled away from him with a hand pressed against her cheek.
"If you want to dream, go back to sleep," he told her. "Get up, some rain has never killed anyone."
She followed sullenly and unhappily, with her sow and dog, but followed him nonetheless. Outside the rain soaked him through in seconds, making him snort. Torches had been lit but many guttered out in the raging wind and rain. Others like the great bonfires spread throughout the army were still raging, fed by numerous slaves. More fires closed in braziers and hidden beneath tents lived but Tyrion found himself knocked around by the Second Sons were who awake at such a graceless hour. They were directed to Hammer's tent, the smith for the company.
He didn't think much of either of them when they shoved up underneath the awning, soaked to the bone with a fat sow and dog.
"There's sound steel here if you can find it," the man said rather than voice his clearly unfavourable opinion. "None of it is pretty, but it will stop a sword. You might have to dig for your war hound."
Penny looked aghast at the idea of sending Crunch out into battle but Tyrion didn't correct Hammer. Thinking it was a war dog would probably help keep it out of a pot.
Rummaging through the great tent among the cluster of armours and weapons showed there was precious little of decent wear for one going to war. At the Green Fork he had fought in mismatched scraps of plate from Lord Lefford's wagons, with a spiked bucket helm that made it look as if he'd just clapped a pail upon his head. Now the Second Sons company steel was worse. Not just old and ill fitting, but with near all dented, cracked, and brittle and splintered. There were also a lot of suspicious burgundy stains which he couldn't figure out was blood or rust.
Then the animals began to panic.
Tyrion didn't notice it at first as he sorted through some dirks for something light enough for him to use, not until he heard Penny's soft scoldings in the tent corner even as the canvas moaned and swayed in the wind. When he looked inquisitively at her, he saw Pretty Pig and Crunch trying to burrow beneath her undersized body. The pig was making unhappy snuffling grunts while the dog's tail was curled under itself, hackles raised and drooling as it whined. The animals whines increased in noise and Tyrion glanced out through the open mouth of the tent. The only light beyond was the great scattering of torches and massive firepits, casting everyone beyond in dancing light and shadows. There were a handful of men, some of which had horses.
Despite the storm there was a calm, almost languid air to the Second Sons camp. It was nothing they had not done a hundred times before. But the horses were skittish, tossing their manes and stomping their hooves. Tyrion watched as one of the sellswords tried to soothe his mount, running a hand down its sweat soaked neck only to end up bitten for his troubles. The other horses were all nickering and kicking, despite attempts to calm them. They should be well used to that as much as their riders.
Something is wrong, Tyrion thought as a shiver rolled down his spine. The hairs upon his nape prickled and one of the horses bucked, nearly kicking off her rider. A flash of lightning off in the distant bay, briefly illuminating the ships sidling through the water before the dull roar of thunder washed over them. A tent in the distance was struck by a lance of wayward lightning, igniting it in an explosive of sparks.
Rain splattered across his face as he left the tent. In the distance the storm had swallowed the top of the Great Pyramid in great pulsating clouds. He couldn't even see anything beyond Slaver's Bay except the flickers of lanterns upon deck and the occasional lash of lightning. Otherwise it was as if the plains dropped into an abyss.
The muffled thuds started again, from a far distance then growing louder and louder. Far louder than any of the Six Sisters he'd heard in Plumm's tent, like someone was pounding a drum next to him. One of the horses screamed, bucking her rider right off her back into the mud and went fleeing from the camp as fast as her hooves would carry her. Several other horses chased after her to vanish into the darkness, only the more iron willed horses or those whose reins where held hard staying with their owners. But Tyrion could see the whites of their eyes and the tension in their muscles.
Something is wrong, Tyrion's thoughts grew more panicked. He clearly wasn't the only one to think it, as even the Second Sons around him were acting nervous. Something was changing. Perhaps Meereen was to launch a counter attack? They couldn't remained holed up there like rabbits, not with the pale mare beginning to slink through the city.
In the distance beyond the sellswords camp he could see the hundred score of elephants, all armoured and brought from New Ghis. One of the elephants struck the head right off a unwary slave with its carved tusk in its frantic movements, sending the body flying. Their trumpets were loud and mingled with the thunder and as Tyrion watched they broke free of the massive pen and stakes. They ignored the shouting Ghiscari trying to herd them and even trampled several underfoot as they stampeded away.
"What is happening?" one of the Second Sons shouted, having to yell to be heard over the thunder as more lightning struck the plains around them. "Are they attacking?"
"Nay, it's just this damn storm. Get those damnable horses back! If they do leave the city we'll need the horses-"
Then a great crackle seemed to thrum through the air followed by a series of thuds and a great ripping noise before Tyrion heard people screaming over the chorus of thunder. This wasn't the scream of fighting men or even dying men. It was sheer, animalistic panic.
Then Tyrion heard a strange warbling shriek answer the screams, that made his body flush with cold sweat, and then a trio of great golden lightning bolts shot down from the pulsating storm clouds in the far distance, consolidating into a single beam which struck one of the Six Sisters and briefly illuminated the entire landscape in gold light. With a scream of cracking wood the trebuchet exploded, wood and iron flying in all directions as thunder boomed across the land. But over it all Tyrion heard the chattering calls of a dragon, high pitched and warbling and clawing at his ears.
It was then Tyrion realized the distant thuds he'd been hearing had been the dragon queen scouting out the slave armies below, flying above the storm clouds as cover to spy upon the oblivious formations below before launching her initial attack. Even as he watched the huge spiked shadow vanished back into the churning storm only to reappear over the next trebuchet and blast it into nothing. She'd chosen the Six Sisters as her first targets, great splintering noises and booms roiling over the plains as the trebuchets were struck down one by one and freeing Meereen from their harassment for the dragon to start its rampage in earnest.
Screaming spread across the camp like wild fire and people leapt into action, sprinting for their tents or running for their weapons or just fleeing for their lives. It was all useless in the dark night with the storm surrounding them on all sides. The rain beat down upon them as more lances of lightning shot down, blowing holes in the plains and exploding steel poles and wagons as it struck wildly. Some were from the dragon but others were from the storm, igniting tents and frying slaves and masters alike.
It was absolute chaos. Tyrion had been in battles before, Green Fork, Blackwater, but this was just a massacre. With the likes of Green Fork there had been time for idle chat, waiting for the fighting to reach them or to observe. And with the Blackwater, waiting for the fleet to sidle in close and even trading japes and jabs before enveloping the bay in green death.
Now everyone was deaf and blind and some fell beast was blasting them with lightning like the ironborn's Storm God, rain thundering down upon the land even as wind shrieked and clawed at the tents and sent men stumbling.
Tyrion found himself knocked aside by one of the Second Sons who ran past, sprawling in the mud as rain beat down upon him. Above the clouds glowed gold and then he saw it, a great wing sweeping down followed by chittering then bolts of light which sent men dying and fleeing.
'Once a man has seen a dragon in flight let him stay at home and tend his garden in content, someone had written once, for this wide world has no greater wonder.'
Tyrion felt no wonder in that moment, only terror as the dragon soared over the army below, vomiting down lightning from three serpentine heads vanishing back up into the darkness like a demon from a nightmare.
All but one of the Six Sisters were already destroyed, great heaps of splintered wood and smoldering rope left in its wake. The men around them were dead, most with their skins blackened to a crisp and eyes popped from their very skulls. A few were twitching and jerking on the ground. Only the Harridan remained of the Sisters, closest to Tyrion and the Second Sons camp and he could see it upon a distant small hill where it had been set to hurl dead to the city. Surrounding it was six thousand men, a thick line of Ghiscari legion members with long spears.
They were utterly useless against the dragon when it appeared, which simply blasted the ground with great flickering forks of lightning from its flight within the churning clouds, killing numerous men and causing the remaining trebuchet to explode in a shower of splinters and screeching wood before it vanished once again. The lightning was so bright it momentarily blinded him and the surrounding armies, Tyrion clapping his hands against his eyes as the dragon shrieked.
Through it all Tyrion thought he could hear the furious screams of a young girl mingling with the dragon's warbling howls even as thunder boomed and bellowed around them.
He stumbled back through the camp, the sellswords now panicking completely when faced with a three headed dragon and wild Targaryen.
A wayward fork of lightning leapt down from the clouds and struck one of the men only feet away from Tyrion as he ran. The noise and light was so loud he ran straight into a torch pole, tripping over again into the mud. The sellswords eyes sockets were just empty steaming pits, his body reeking of burnt meat as it convulsed on the ground and plate armour glowing cherry red along the edges. The air was thick and hot, despite the rain beating down upon them. In the distance he heard the dragon scream again. His limbs felt like jelly as he forced himself up, stumbling into Hammer's tent with the smith long gone.
Inside the tent Penny was sobbing hysterically, her sow and dog huddled close to her as people screamed and died around them. Lances of lightning lit up the sky, giving them flashes of the carnage around them like something from a nightmare. Sometimes Tyrion could see the dragon's huge barbed silhouette within the storm, massive wings spread wide and crimson eyes visible even within the clouds. Then it would be gone as swift as a fish only to reappear at another part of the army and raining death down below.
As Tyrion dragged Penny away from the tent he saw numerous fires spreading through the army, people knocking over lamps in their panic or the lightning setting alight canvas and wood and oil. The wind stirred them up and hot and wild enough the rain only killed the smaller infernos while the rest spread. Even now he could see the entire spread of cook tents were on fire, a massive beacon of flames glowing across the land and one of the ships out in the bay was also alight with its mast split in half from lightning.
But it was true, the shadow of death had three heads. Three heads to match the great banners flying upon Meereen's walls. Three heads for the three of Targaryen, for a Targaryen named Stormborn as the torrents of rain, wind and lightning crashed around him in a chaos of noise and death. Daenerys Stormborn and her three headed dragon which breathed lightning.
All Tyrion could think of was his conversation with Illyrio Mopatis, in the sunny supper of Pentos with the cheesemonger, which seemed a world away as he looked up at the churning blackened clouds streaked with golden light and the screeches of the beast within and the screams of a woman.
'Fine words. Words are wind. Who is this bloody savior?'
'A dragon. A dragon with three heads.'
As they ran through the Second Sons hand-in-hand Tyrion could see in the distance upon a small knoll the Girl General was shouting, trying to rally her slave soldiers back around her. But then a great golden head snaked down out of the churning darkness above and yanked her and her horse screaming up into the storm before anyone could blink. People shrieked and shied away but the dragon was already gone back into the storm.
Trumpets were blowing along the Skahazadhan, scattered throughout the panicking masses while warhorns answering from the walls of Meereen and the dragon's screams above. Through it all thunder boomed, so loud and consistent as lightning struck around them like a frenzied dance. Death, destruction and storm. This wasn't a battle, it was a slaughter.
And many were realizing it, fleeing rather than trying to fight a monster in the dark. Scorpions, ballistae, crossbows, they were useless in the dead of night during a raging squall against an airborne enemy. They might as throw rocks while blindfolded at the dragon for all the good it would do. It was slipping in and out of the storm, reappearing on opposite ends of the battle field to blast the army below and vanishing before anyone could make sense.
Tyrion realize how badly he'd chosen, reaching out to Plumm and signing away to the Second Sons when the dragon queen arrived scant hours later and was destroying the entire army with naught but a single furious dragon and her rage. The ships in the bay and river were burning, splintered and fleeing and Penny and Tyrion had to run close to the tents of the sellswords. The thick of the army was chaos, people trying to run and being trampled underfoot, the horses stampeding. Even as they ran down the side of a burning tent he saw a herd of nearly twenty horses galloping down the narrow column of the tents and a score of slave warriors tried to flee; the chains linking them ankle to ankle and throat to throat hobbled them and the panicked horses simply ran them down with a sickening crunch and cut-off screams.
More horns bellowed out from Meereen and when Tyrion glanced over at the great walls he saw the dragon briefly appear, huge wings spread as it soared over to blast a ship in the bay with all three heads. The mast split in half and the hull cracked with a screech as the oiled catapults were set on fire from the lightning heat.
Then Tyrion spotted Brown Ben Plumm and his companions galloping through the camp, half the tents on fire around them. Plumm's plate armour shone like polish from the rain, his silk cloak sodden.
"We need to make haste!" Kasporio was shouting over the thunder around them. In the distance the Tolosi slingers were struck by golden lightning, one man having his very limbs burst off.
"For what? To run? How are we supposed to fight that damned thing in the sky?!" one of the others yelled. Their horses were panicking, the men barely managing to keep them in place. If the dragon came to close the horses would buck them off and flee, Tyrion knew. Wiser than their riders.
"Who is even the Yunkai commander now? The Girl General is dead, same as the Little Pigeon," another said. Tyrion dragged Penny closer and Plumm cast him a sharp look before focusing back on his men. His roan was snorting and nickering, foam at the corner of its mouth and eyes rolling. On the other side of the army the dragon was strafing left and right, blasting the lines of scorpions set upon the river banks before it vanished.
"Gorzhak zo Eraz is dead as well, cut down by Pentoshi treachery. The turncoat who calls himself the Tattered Prince has declared himself for the dragon queen."
Brown Ben scratched at his sodden beard, rain running in rivulets down his lined face. "The Windblown have gone over, have they?" he said, in a tone of mild interest.
"As we should," Tyrion said, having to shout as more thunder rang out. All the faces except Plumm were unfriendly as the sellswords turned to see who'd spoken. "Since I think we can all see this tide of battle has turned. And Yunaki'i are broken and New Ghis is dying like the old."
"That stunted runt says the truth," one of the Second Sons said. Blood was staining his leather armour and his breath was coming in quick, frightened pants. Even with the smell of burning flesh suffusing the air, he reeked of urine.
"All hail our beloved queen, Daenerys Stormborn," Tyrion grinned. Penny's hands clenched around his own.
"We have always been the queen's men," announced Brown Ben Plumm. "Us rejoining the Yunkai'i was a plot for her sake. We can sow chaos as the queen focuses on the masses with her dragon."
"And what a clever ploy it was," Tyrion said cheekily.
Then Kasporio shrieked and kicked his heels so hard into his horse's sides he bloodied it as the horse hurled itself forward but when Tyrion looked up he realized the cause for the man's panic and abrupt escape.
Tyrion and Penny were blown to the side like leaves, tumbling away through a tent as the golden dragon landed only yards away with a thunderous crash and huge burst of air. The horses screamed and ran, with their riders making no heed to stop them from fleeing and simply clinging to their mounts. Sprawled down on a collapsed tent they missed being cleaved in half by the dragon's massive clubbed tails as they whipped overhead, the spikes longer than his whole body as they struck through the standing tents and snapping the poles like twigs. Penny was screaming, her fingers gripping Tyrion's hand to tightly they drew blood but all Tyrion could stare at was the great golden dragon. Dead and dying men were thrown upon the ground, some having been crushed underfoot or from the beasts tails. Its scales shone like polished gold with rain and its huge wings were outstretched.
And upon its shoulders Tyrion saw the slight form of a woman clad in red and black, hair shining like molten silver in the rain as she shrieked. The dragon echoed her rage, flaring out its great wings and then snapped its middle head to the side like a hound throwing aside a rat.
And Brown Ben Plumm's body splattered across the ground a few feet away away, head and limbs torn right off. With a scream the dragon swept down its wings in a thunderclap of air and it was airborne again, rapidly ascending until it vanished back into the storm.
When Tyrion managed to get up, Penny yanking at his hand as her dog and pig cowered around her, he saw that the Second Sons camp had been flattened. Men dead and dying thrown across the ground, tents aflame and ground thick with mud and blood. In the distance he heard the warhorns of Meereen bellow across the land, mixing with the dragon and thunder.
One plan was ashes but he still had his life. Tyrion hadn't thought much of it but as he staggered forward, finally breaking into a sprint with Penny still in hand he realized how little he wanted to die. He didn't even bother fighting since they were fighting a dragon with three heads that spat lightning and was using a squall for cover. He might as well spit in the wind.
What a fraud you are, Imp, a vicious voice hissed in the back of his head. You let a hundred guardsmen rape your own wife and then did so yourself, shot your father through the belly with a quarrel then twisted a golden chain around your lover's throat until her face turned black and swollen, yet somehow you still think that you deserve to live. You deserve to die broken underneath a dragon's jaws, a worthless little lion.
But Penny's hand was tight around his own and Tyrion was still running. It would be a sight, two dwarves in mismatched armour with a fat sow and hound running with them but everyone else was screaming and running as well so no one paid them any mind.
In the distance he heard a loud boom followed by the ground shaking. As the screams increased he realized the dragon must have landed again.
They followed the curve of the Skahazadhan to avoid being trampled by the chaos in the middle of the camp but to Tyrion's surprise he could see fighting out along the bay. At first he thought Meereen had opened her gates, the defenders sweeping out to kill the stragglers as dragon queen dealt with the body of the host but as more lightning lit up the sky Tyrion realized with a jolt that he recognized the great kraken painted upon the sails of the new comer ships in the far distance.
Greyjoys? Tyrion had no idea what the Iron islanders were doing half a world away. At the mouth of the river a ship was on fire, sinking slowly into the water and like a beacon in the wet darkness as it dammed the river.
There was the crashing of hulls as ships collided with each other, the deep-throated warhorns of the ironborn and high whistles of Qarth, the battle cries and crash of axe upon armor, sword on shield, all mingled with the shrieks and cries of dying men as more horns trumpeted from Meereen as thunder roared. Many of the ships were still far out in the bay, so the sounds they made seemed faint and far away, but he knew them all the same.
"That's the Stranger coming, Penny," Tyrion managed to pant out, his voice half hysterical as more lightning lit up the sky. "The Black Goat, the Pale Child, Him of Many Faces, call him what you will. That's death and its coming for us."
"It's a dragon," Penny screamed at him. In the distance a huge barbed shape rose back up into the air, sucked away into the storm.
As they ran down the sodden slope Tyrion saw the broken body of a white horse with a red mane, rib cage completely crushed and neck at an unnatural angle. Of its master only the Girl General's leg remained, bloodied foot still tangled in the stirrup.
The fighting from the bay was even louder, as more and more of the ships drew ashore. Out in the sea most of the masters ships were either aflame, scuttled or boarded. Tyrion had grown up on Casterly Rock, he was no stranger to ironborn reavers. Over the centuries they'd set Lannisport alight three times and raided it over two dozen times. The Westerosi knew what savagery the iron born were capable of and it seemed the Essosi masters were learning of that as well. He had to wonder if that was where the dragon queen had vanished to, recruiting the ironborn and burning the Volantis fleet before heading to Meereen to bring blood and fire.
In the river he could see many of the masters armies attempting to swim across among the bobbing dead. In the night the water looked black. Even as Tyrion contemplated trying to swim across the dragon tore that notion from his mind as it suddenly descended, the torrential rain above them briefly stopped by the dragon's bulk as it soared overhead before blasting the Skahazadhan with a trio of lightning strikes. The water promptly lit up in dancing light and electrocuted all those within the waters, sending them spasming and flailing before they joined the other floating corpses.
Tyrion and Penny stumbled and cowered on the sodden bank even as the dragon continued down the curving bend of the water high in the air, spitting lightning down at those still twitching and its wings beating up and down. Heading towards the Greyjoy fleet and the city of Meereen. Tyrion's fingers clenched around Penny's before they were back on their short legs and running. The muddied ground sucked at their feet, the rain making it slick and slippery as they stumbled along in hand. Following the bank, between the camps and the dark waters of the river to follow it northway. Maybe they could run all the way to Bhorash or follow the river east towards Hesh. Tyrion didn't know, all he was focused on was running away from the burning tents, golden dragon and the storm raging around the city.
As they left the army behind occasionally someone ran past them, slave or master Tyrion couldn't tell in the dark and rain. Some in groups or running alone. Occasionally it was an animal, a runaway horse or camel fleeing from the carnage. One man with his arm missing from the elbow down, skin blackened and twisted from lightning, another clutching at a bolt in his side as he hobbled. A woman supporting a bloodied man as they both ran side by side, another a group of slaves barely more than children sprinting as fast as their bare feet would carry them. In the distance Tyrion saw a running woman get struck by a bolt of lightning from the churning storm rather than dragon breath, her body collapsing mid-step in a charred heap. Tyrion thought they would make it. And then maybe once the dying and death finished he could try to reach Meereen and parley with the dragon queen once her rage was sated and beg for her mercy.
Or find a nice dark cave to hide forever in, to avoid the golden dragon.
Then the air itself seemed to be torn asunder by the howl of a horn that blasted apart his thoughts, the baneful sound like a thousand screaming souls and was such a shivering hot scream that it made Tyrion's bones seem to buckle within him and then both he and Penny collapsed at the hellish noise still reverberating out from the bay and went rolling down the muddy banks into the river below.
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