Tyrion's Concern
Daenerys poured two cups of sweet red wine, one for herself and the other for her anxious Hand, Tyrion Lannister. She took her place calmly in one of the plush chairs that rested at the small table within her royal apartment, her shoulders loose and relaxed as she watched Tyrion pace back and forth from the door to the window that overlooked the city. After taking a slow sip of wine, not turning her gaze from him, she slid Tyrion’s cup over to the opposing chair, offering him a wave of invitation.
The Hand approached the table and drank long and deep from the cup before him, letting a small stream of wine trickle into his beard. When he finished, a slight red hue stained his mustache, which he quickly blotted away with an available cloth. He glanced appreciatively into the cup, “Is this Dornish?”
“It is. Lady Greyjoy was kind enough to gift us a barrel from her ship. It seems that he men prefer ale,” Daenerys replied, casting a sideways glance out the large window. A breeze smoothed its way along the walls of the pyramid, slipping in through the opening and billowing the light blue curtains slightly in their ties. The queen’s eyes moved from the curtains to the streets below, before shifting further out to the port that was nestled outside the city walls.
“They can keep their ale,” Tyrion commented, finally taking a seat in the chair across from his queen. His mismatched eyes followed her gaze to the dark water that lapped at the walls beyond, “I prefer alcohol of finer taste.”
Daenerys gave no reply as she enjoyed some more of her drink, waiting patiently for Tyrion to continue. She knew, of course, that he had come here for a purpose – the uneasiness played on his brow like a singer to a harp. At last, he released a long sigh and leaned back, his stunted frame sinking into the large chair just as he sank into the rest of his cup. He went to refill the glass, holding to pitcher out in offering to his queen. She waved him away, and he filled just his own cup.
“My queen,” he took one more sip of the delectable Dornish beverage, and then seemed ready to continue, “I am unsure if this arrangement with the Greyjoys is wise.”
“Why do you feel this way?” The queen asked in response, no appearing to be surprised by his comment. He had spoken up briefly when she met with the Greyjoys – Lady Asha Greyjoy, and her meek brother Theon – earlier in the day. It was not terribly shocking that he had come to her to discuss his concerns. She did not appear worried in the least, even as Tyrion’s brow furrowed deeper. He seemed to be struggling to find the right words.
“It is true that the Iron Islands are not a major part of the Seven Kingdoms,” He began, “When you take your rightful throne, their independence will not be likely to cause much harm. Aside from their ships, you won’t want for their goods, and certainly not for their taxes. But the Ironborn themselves, on the other hand —"
“They are reavers and rapers.” Dany finished, pouring herself some more wine. She topped off her Hand’s cup without asking, and he nodded a thankful approval. She placed the pitcher back on the table and leaned into her chair once more, “You’ve told me this already, Tyrion. Our agreement with the Greyjoys is that they will maintain independence, but will no longer be permitted to engage in such practices.”
“A wise stipulation, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, shifting in his chair. The wrinkles that creased his forehead gave away that he was still quite anxious, despite the reassurance he had been given. “Though I find myself concerned at the truth of it. Before you, Lady Greyjoy will say whatever she must in order to ensure that she makes this alliance. But what will happen when all is said and done, and you sit the Iron Throne? Her people may demand a return to their old ways.”
“An unlikely prospect,” the queen replied as she rose from her seat, leaving her glass behind as she approached the window. Below her, the Unsullied patrolled the quiet streets, torches in hand. Occasionally, a candle flickered absently in a window, barely noticeable in the darkness of the night. Far away from the pyramid, in the waters of the port, sails flapped in the wind – the kraken banners illuminated by the reflection of the moonlight. It was a welcome respite from the chaos that had consumed the city as of late.
“Unlikely or not, Your Grace, the Greyjoys have turned on promises before,” his voice held a slight edge of distaste as he recalled the events from years past.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Lord Tyrion,” Daenerys turned her head to look at him, and he felt instantly small. He tightened his jaw and focused on his cup as she continued, “but it was the brother that broke his oaths before, was it not?”
“Well…” The Hand struggled for a moment, knowing the point that she was trying to make. Theon Greyjoy had turned against Robb Stark, the King in the North, when he went home to Pyke. Even among his own blood he hadn’t stood strong, having soon turned against his sister and, in the same vein, his father and his people. The Turn in the North had been a horrific event if the rumors were to be believed, and not one he wished to discuss in depth. He nodded, “Yes, Your Grace.”
“It is Lady Greyjoy who leads her people, and she is the one who gave me her word.” Daenerys replied, turning her attention back out the window. “I have no reason to believe that she would break faith.”
“Once she becomes Queen Yara of the Iron Islands, loyalty to another crown may not matter to her any longer,” Tyrion pressed, aware that his insistence might irritate his queen. Nevertheless, as her advisor, it was his duty to always speak the truth to the leader that he served. If anyone should have the ability to speak their mind to Queen Daenerys of House Targaryen – First of Her Name, Queen of Meereen, Rightful Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Rightful Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, the Unburnt, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons – it should be him.
Daenerys tightened her jaw slightly, an indication that she was growing tired of his persistence on the matter. As she took a seat at the windowsill overlooking the world below, a light breeze rushed in, rustling her silk gown as she kept her lilac gaze outward. Slowly, she seemed to relax. Her jaw unclenched and shoulders drooped low, the white fabric accenting each curve of her frame. She then turned back to her Hand, who was refilling his cup yet again. “You may be right. Yet, I find myself inclined to trust her.”
Tyrion nodded from his seat, letting the tenseness in his own body subside. Whether this relaxation came from the acknowledgement of his queen or the wine, no one could tell. “Whether or not you trust her, it may be prudent to keep our guests on our shores for a while longer. Give Varys time to assess their loyalties and for you to get to know your allies.”
Daenerys regarded him with a curious expression, as though she were weighing whether or not she could trust him. At last, she nodded in agreement, “Very well. We’ll keep the Ironborn here for a time while we prepare their ships. Ensure that they have ample supplies for the battles to comes… and that they are as loyal as they claim to be.”
“A wise choice, Your Grace.” Tyrion nodded in agreement, relieved that his concerns had been heard and taken into consideration. He finished off his cup of wine, relishing the last few sips of the Dornish red, and then stood up to take his leave. “Thank you, Your Grace. I will see to it that everything is taken care of.”
Daenerys offered a small smile as she watched him go, her gaze following his steps out the door. Upon his departure, she remained at the window a few moments longer, as she found herself lost in thought. The Greyjoys were a wildcard, that much was for certain. Tyrion was right to be wary of their allegiance, and their future independence. Yet, she was confidant in her ability to handle them, just as she had handled all the other challenges that had come her way.
With a final glance at the kraken sails, she turned and made her way to her bedchamber. It was time to rest, and gather her strength for the battles that were to come. She knew that many enemies waited to strike, many of whom were far more dangerous than the Greyjoys she fretted about now. Her journey to the Iron Throne was far from over.
But she was a Targaryen. The blood of the dragon. She would not back down. With determination in her chest, she climbed into bed and let sleep claim her, knowing that she would face whatever lay ahead with strength and courage.