In the great hall of the pyramid of Meereen, a performance of rare heat and flesh was unfolding.
Tyrion Lannister could not tear his eyes from the swaying bodies. Back in Westeros you never saw a show like this.
"Gods of wine and tits," he murmured to the bloodrider beside him, "this place is my promised land." The two of them shared a low, dirty laugh.
When it came to making friends, Tyrion had a gift.
"You look right at home here," the bloodrider said. "Forget that pile of rock you call Casterly Rock. Let Her Grace give you a pyramid of your own. Right now the only one sitting above you is the queen herself."
"Above me—" Tyrion started to fire back with something filthy, then clamped his mouth shut.
A bloodrider who had watched Daenerys walk out of the flames would never let a man joke about his queen or his khaleesi that way.
"I'd like to go home someday," Tyrion said, pulling his thoughts back into line. "But this is no time to rush. We need to help Her Grace lock this place down first."
He let the mood cool and turned his attention to the tall, lean envoy seated near Daenerys. The man's robes were pure eastern silk, a jewel glinted in his nose, and his name was the sort that made a Westerosi tongue trip. The Dragon Queen simply called him Zaro.
He had come from Qarth.
In the east nearly every city still ran on slaves. Daenerys's decision to free them burned like a beacon in the dark. The very Bay that had once been famous for breeding and selling flesh had become a holy place for every thrall within a thousand leagues. Bold slaves bolted the first chance they got. The cautious ones sharpened knives in secret, waiting for the day dragon wings darkened their masters' skies.
New Ghis needed no introduction; even old Valyrian satellites like Tolos and Elyria looked on the free Bay with open hostility. They would have cheered a dragonlord's return if that dragonlord still kept the old custom of chains. A dragonlord who shattered those chains was another matter entirely.
Daenerys's diplomatic situation was, in short, a mess. And now even distant Qarth had sent an envoy.
Tyrion had thought that after Connington's party helped crush the Sons of the Harpy the Bay would finally settle. He had not counted on threats from beyond its shores. The mere existence of a free Slaver's Bay kept every slave-master from here to the Jade Sea awake at night. Their greatest wish was for the Dragon Queen to pack her dragons and sail home to Westeros as soon as possible.
Tyrion watched Daenerys trade smiles and barbs with Zaro across the table. Every toast was a thrust; neither gave an inch.
"—we will give you a fleet—"
"—I will not abandon my people—"
Tyrion edged closer, straining to catch every word.
"The freedmen of the Bay may love you," Zaro said in that silky Qartheen drawl, "but they are shallow folk. Until men of learning, of property, of honor swear to you, you have built your throne on a volcano. You put down the Harpy once. The next rebellion is already growing."
"Then I will put it down again." Daenerys lifted her cup with easy confidence.
Zaro sighed. The girl was young. She had never tasted real defeat.
"Perhaps you might marry into a local house," he pressed. "Bind yourself to them. Birth children with Ghiscari blood."
Tyrion's gut tightened. That was exactly why so few women sat thrones. Strength on the battlefield was only half the problem. Pregnancy meant a full year of weakness and risk, and the birthing bed itself was a second battlefield. No man who followed a queen wanted to watch her walk that road.
"Have you never heard the saying?" Daenerys answered coolly. "A true dragon does not couple with beasts—least of all with slave-masters."
"And the Dothraki are not beasts?" Zaro's patience finally cracked; the mockery slipped out naked.
Sparks flew. Tyrion hurried forward to pour oil on the fire before it became a blaze.
Zaro was not wrong. They still had almost no support among the Bay's old elite.
The talks were going nowhere. Daenerys grew tired of the game, feigned a headache, and rose to leave the feast. Tyrion, ever the good Hand, stayed behind to keep Zaro sweet with more wine and empty promises.
That was when a messenger found him: a ship from Westeros had arrived, claiming to speak for Jon Targaryen and requesting audience with the Dragon Queen.
Tyrion poured every drop of charm he had into getting Zaro roaring drunk, then practically dragged Daenerys off to meet the newcomers.
"How strange," the queen said with a curl of her lip. "All those years my brother and I wandered like beggars, and suddenly I have family crawling out of every rock."
She did not receive them in any formal hall. She chose a garden instead. By the time Tyrion reached them the conversation had already begun.
From the snatches he caught, it was not going smoothly.
So Jon wants dragons too, Tyrion thought with a flicker of malicious glee. He has no idea someone already burned that bridge.
Connington's party had sailed more than two months earlier, intending to find the Golden Company and wait for the right moment to land in Westeros. Barristan Selmy had not gone with them. Guilt, loyalty, or simple stubbornness—whatever the reason, the old knight stayed, training the young Unsullied in the ways of chivalry even though Daenerys no longer trusted him the way she once had.
"No, Your Grace," a familiar voice said carefully. "I fear you misunderstand."
"Bronn?"
Tyrion quickened his pace. There he was—Bronn of the Blackwater—trying very hard not to stare at the queen's half-bared breast.
Daenerys had dressed for the Qartheen envoy. Qartheen fashion required a woman to leave one breast free. She had draped her silver-gold hair across the exposed side, but the soft curve still showed through.
"My lord has no designs on your dragons," Bronn said.
"Then he has designs on me?" Daenerys's voice dripped with scorn.
"Neither. He sent us to help you. He said your heart is with the enslaved of the Bay, so he dispatched us—especially the lady Melisandre here—to offer what aid we can."
"Oh?" Daenerys sounded bored. She had little love for red priests or any other flavor of wizard; one of them had nearly cost her everything once.
"Your Grace," Bronn pressed on, "let me tell you how the board stands in Westeros."
He spoke like a man reciting a carefully memorized script. Bronn could cut a man to ribbons with a joke when the stakes were low, but put him in front of a queen and he stuck to the lines.
The message was simple: even without dragons Jon Targaryen could unite the Seven Kingdoms under the three-headed banner. The Long Night was coming, so he was trying to set the war with Stannis aside for now. He urged Daenerys to stockpile every grain of food she could and plant potatoes on every scrap of free earth in the Bay.
Listening from the shadows, Tyrion fell silent.
Jon's strength had become terrifying. By raising the Targaryen banner he had filled the one hole in his armor—name and legitimacy. That silver-haired son of his only made the claim harder to deny. The entire Sunset Sea now answered to him. Tyrion no longer knew how to beat such an enemy. The dream of reclaiming Casterly Rock had never felt farther away.
"This Jon seems very sure of himself," Daenerys said. "But he is still a bastard. What right does he have to the Iron Throne?"
"Your Grace, my lord is no bastard. Prince Rhaegar and Lady Lyanna were wed. There is a witness."
"How many witnesses?"
"One." Bronn's voice lost its certainty. "One obscure crannogman—Howland Reed."
Melisandre stepped forward and offered a thick sealed packet. "Lord Jon asked me to place this in your hands. It will help you secure the Bay."
"I have no need. The Sons of the Harpy are already crushed."
A sharper voice cut in. "Your Grace—perhaps I should look at it."
Daenerys saw Tyrion and nodded. Bronn and Tyrion locked eyes for a heartbeat; the recognition was mutual and warm. Once, back in Westeros, they had nearly climbed to the top together—Hand and master of coin, both fat and happy in King's Landing—until Jon had upended every board. Now, far from that monster, they might serve the same queen again. Neither of them said any of that aloud.
Tyrion broke the seal and began to read. The further he went the brighter his mismatched eyes grew.
"Well?" Daenerys asked, still half-distracted. "What does my sudden nephew have to say?"
"Your Grace, Jon's counsel is gold. Follow it and within a year or two the Bay will be the most loyal fortress you possess."
That got her attention. She took the letter. No flourishes, no empty flattery—only clear-eyed diagnosis of every wound the Bay still bled and practical remedies for each one.
Daenerys looked up. "He truly has no need of my dragons?"
"Your Grace," Bronn answered, "my lord said your dragons are weapons for the living against the Long Night and the Others—not chips on a table of thrones. He swore that if he leads Westeros through the darkness he will come himself to help you hold the Bay."
"Hmph. The bastard still does not want me contesting his claim to the Iron Throne." Daenerys laughed once, soft and scornful, yet she handed the letter to Missandei behind her.
Missandei tucked it away carefully. Even she was beginning to feel curious about this Jon Targaryen.
Everyone present also noticed how many times Bronn had spoken of the Long Night.
Winter was coming—that much was true. But the Long Night of the old stories? Cold, hunger, darkness, despair, wights and White Walkers? Mothers smothering newborns so the cold would not take them first? The tales were nightmare fuel, yet they had always felt like just that—tales.
Still, the group realized Connington and his friends had been far too optimistic. The Tyrells were now bound to Jon by blood and ambition; the queenship they had chased for years was finally within reach, so they would fight for him to the last man. Young Aegon had none of that. He had no real seat of power, no marriage alliance that mattered. Stannis and Jon had carved Westeros almost cleanly between them. Dorne might lean toward the boy, but Dorne was far and its spears were few.
Perhaps Young Aegon will join Stannis against Jon, Tyrion thought. If that happens the outcome is anyone's guess.
"Ser Tyrion," Daenerys said.
"Your Grace."
"Send the Qartheen envoy home. Since he is so certain I do not belong here, let him watch these people choose for themselves."
The letter had opened a door in her mind. The Dragon Queen no longer feared the challenges ahead.
"As you command."