Threading the Line
Tyrion waited by the pyramid exit, his mismatched eyes following his queen to the open field where the dragons, large and proud, dug into their meals. Part of him had wished to join her as she went to feed her children, as she had offered, but something within him had made him stay behind. He had released Viserion and Rhaegal, the two who fed now, shortly after the queen had made him her Hand, and nearly pissed himself in the process. While he enjoyed their presence, was in awe of their fierceness and their beauty, and deeply longed for their affection, the piece of him that sought self-preservation worried that they may mistake him as their meal. Of course, Queen Daenerys had told him otherwise, and laughed teasingly when he chose to keep his distance anyway.
It was in moments like these, as he watched his queen with her children, that he remembered why he had so willingly joined the Dragon Queen’s service. Ser Jorah Mormont, while exiled now, had been in love with her from the start, but had fallen even harder when she emerged untouched from the flames – the Unburnt. Missandei and Grey Worm, two of her most loyal advisors, had been honored to serve her in their freedom, after she had liberated them from their brutal masters – the Breaker of Chains. What remained of the Dothraki, her small khalasar that came to her after the death of Khal Drogo, followed her as their great Khaleesi – the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea. The Greyjoys, now until the war was won, followed her as their rightful ruler – the Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, and the Protector of the Seven Kingdoms. But Tyrion knew the truth – each of the brave men and women who entered her service may have come for a variety of reasons, but the one that kept them was her most grandiose and well-earned title – the Mother of Dragons.
When Tyrion had first heard the title, he had not been convinced. Even if she had dragons, and at that time he was not sure he believed that she did, he doubted that mother was the right term for her relationship with them. He had studied dragons in depth, especially as a child when he had longed for one of his own – even a small one, he remembered. He knew they were ferocious beats, with a wisdom that was said to mirror that of men (or, if some maesters were to be believed, went beyond that of men), with greater power and might than any person could hold. Even the Targaryens of old had struggled to train them, to handle them. They worked with them, brought them to heel, bonded with them – all in order to establish reliable mounts, partners, and fighters. Yet even they had to remind their dragons: dohaeris, they would say – serve, in the common tongue. But he had never heard the world slip from Daenerys’s mouth.
The feeding frenzy continued as Daenerys walked easily between her two full-grown dragons, each more massive than Tyrion had ever imagined they could be. The last Targaryen dragons were as big as house cats, he thought. The dragons ate, the carcasses of their feast resting at their fierce claws – goats, cattle, and a few aged or injured horses. The charred remains were scattered at the queen’s feet, but she paid them no mind. She did not flinch as they blew red-hot fire down upon their prey, even when she stood directly adjacent to the object of their attention. They did not see her as a threat nor as food. Viserion tore the flesh from what Tyrion believed to have once been a mare, and chewed and swallowed the meal with eager zeal. Rhaegal swallowed a goat whole, not even stopping to chew, and then leaned heavily toward his mother. He pressed his massive skull against her, releasing a loud and loving cry. Tyrion knew that Daenerys was smiling, even as the motion teetered her small frame and nearly sent her sprawling into the ash and soot. She reached over, stroking Rhaegal’s scales with loving affection, and the Hand could not help but feel that the dragon seemed more at peace than Tyrion had been his entire life.
The third of her dragons, Drogon, had not been seen in a few weeks. He tended to wander and explore, Tyrion had been told. He knew that Daenerys worried for him. The last time he had been seen, she had been overjoyed. He’d flown across the city, landing upon the pyramid to meet with his mother, however briefly. Their interaction had not lasted long, and he soon took flight once more. Tyrion had only seen him as he departed, and remembered his deep, black wings spreading across the sky. His size had been an absolute marvel, compared to Viserion and Rhaegal. From how the queen described him, he was also the most fierce and headstrong. Much like our queen, Tyrion mused.
And fierce and headstrong she was. Daenerys had a kind heart, and sought to do good in the world, though she was smarter than most anyone he’d met. She knew where to draw the line between mercy and force, and considered the guidance of her advisors. Of course, she did not always choose to take the advice she was given. That part of her made him nervous, but also made a certain hope flutter in his chest. It meant she would not be easily manipulated once she sat the Iron Throne. She would not be drawn into the political games that had littered the Council when he had left. She was her own person, who listened with open ears, but still knew when to make her own choices. It would be a welcome change from King Robert, who had not cared to rule, and a refreshing betterment from King Joffrey, who listened to nothing but his darkest impulses. She was a queen that meant to be queen, in the truest sense. For a moment Tyrion pondered how the quiet, gentle Tommen was fairing as king, but he quickly pushed the thought aside.
Tyrion was pulled from his thoughts as Daenerys approached, Viserion rushing into the air behind her. Rhaegal watched her go, yawning widely as he curled up tightly for a post-meal nap. The queen offered her Hand a smile, “You freed them, Tyrion. Yet, I have to wonder if you fear them.”
“Fear? No,” he replied, turning to walk beside her as she passed him by. She instinctively slowed, and he found himself thankful, “I like to think I have a healthy reverence for them, is all.”
“You were worried that they would eat you.”
“I am about the size of one of those goats.”
Dany smiled, shaking her head in amusement at his comment. He grinned momentarily as well, loving to watch the happiness that ran across her face. Of course, he had wanted to speak with the queen today about more than just the dragons’ meal. He pushed down his smile, but kept his voice pleasant, “My Queen, I did have something I wanted to address with you.”
As the two entered the pyramid, Tyrion followed as Daenerys made her way toward the steps. He was not surprised by the trajectory, as he knew how much she enjoyed the balcony that rested near the top of the structure. From there, she could look out over the whole city – and even beyond. It was a comfortable place to meet with her advisors, to entertain guests, and to rest when she was weary. Even he had grown fond of the space since he had come to Meereen. She spared him a glance as they began their ascent, “What is it, Lord Tyrion?”
“I heard that Lady Greyjoy came to see you the other day… in your chambers.” Tyrion had practiced how to say this, hoping to avoid coming off as rude or intrusive. Yet, despite his efforts, the words felt ridiculous on his tongue. It was only a couple days past that he and Varys had discussed the possibility of the Ironborn leader trying to get… close with the queen, and he worried that they may have been right. Nonetheless, it was his role as Hand of the Queen to maintain a healthy interest in her life, while not interfering with most personal matters. Gods, he thought, I hope this is not one of those “personal matters.”
Daenerys was silent as they reached the top of the first flight of stairs and turned to trek up the next. In the extended period of quiet, Tyrion began to mull over the possibilities of what may have happened. Maybe he and Varys were right, or maybe the Greyjoy was trying to make some new deal. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but the longer the silence wore on, the more awful the scenarios became. As they rounded the next flight of stairs, he forced the thoughts away – he needed to wait, not assume.
“She did,” the queen finally said, her voice holding enough of an edge that Tyrion knew she was none to happy to discuss the topic, “She stopped by the royal apartments yesterday, just past midday.”
“I see,” he replied, working hard to not let his tone betray his interest. He considered for a moment how to continue before speaking once more, “May I ask what it is that she wanted, Your Grace?”
“You may,” Daenerys replied as the two reached the top of the final flight, the beautiful balcony appearing before them. Adorned with expertly carved marble and tapestries displaying glorious scenes, the open-canopy overlook was truly one of the most gorgeous locations in the pyramid. Tyrion looked around for a moment, letting his aching legs rest as his queen moved gracefully over to the seating area that was positioned nearest to the stone railing. She sat on a long, teal-cushioned couch, leaning slightly on one of the golden accent pillows as she peered across the city. After a moment, Tyrion followed, albeit less gracefully, and sat down in a matching chair across from her. She kept her gaze focused on Meereen as she continued, “though you are likely to find it far less interesting that you seem to believe.”
“Even so, I would like to hear it,” Tyrion replied, finding himself out of breath after the long climb. He was ill-equipped for such feats. “If you are willing to share, of course.”
“We were only continuing a conversation.”
“From when?” He spoke the words too quickly, and caught himself too late. “Apologies, Your Grace. I was not aware that you two had spoken outside of the audience chamber some days ago.”
“We did, a few days back.” She eyed him now, her lilac eyes studying him as she tried to determine what it was that he was looking for. He could feel the weight of her gaze upon him, and shifted uneasily in his seat. She looked back over the railing, “I do not know why that would concern you so.”
Tyrion pulled at his collar, suddenly feeling quite hot. Sunlight drenched the balcony, spreading across their seating and the stone surrounding them. While Meereen was often quite warm, the Hand had become skilled at dressing suitably for the weather. It was not the heat that was getting to him, he knew. But right now, everything felt hot. Why are you so afraid? He couldn’t say why. He didn’t hold a direct fear of the queen – she may be fire and blood, the words of her House, but she was also kind and just. Maybe he was concerned about disappointing her, or displeasing her in some fashion. Or maybe his mind was on another monarch, one that did not take kindly to small inconveniences or prying advisors. She is not Joffrey, he reminded himself. He watched Daenerys for a moment, and then followed her eyes across the terrace, “I apologize if I am intruding, My Queen. I am still unsure of where Lady Greyjoy’s allegiance truly falls, and it worries me that you have been alone with her.”
“We have discussed your concerns in the past,” Dany replied, turning back to look at her Hand. “During that discussion, I recall you telling me to get to know my allies.”
“Yes…” Tyrion trailed off. He had said that, of course. “I did not mean directly, I suppose. Varys is working to —”
“Determine their loyalties, I know.” She said smoothly, finishing his sentence for him. He felt like he was melting as her gaze bore deeper into him. “And has Varys found any reason to doubt their allegiance thus far, Lord Tyrion?”
“Well… no, Your Grace,” he admitted, feeling foolish. “He has been keeping a close eye on both Greyjoys and on the Ironborn throughout the city, but has found nothing to speak of.”
Daenerys remained silent at this, but Tyrion knew she had no need to speak. She had made her point already, and Tyrion had but to dwell in it. He cast his eyes downward, at where he clasped his hands in his lap. He searched for the right words – words to explain why he was so uneasy, while not coming off as presumptuous. The perfect words. Yet, he seemed at a loss to find them. But before he could some up with something to say, perfect or otherwise, the queen spoke, “Perhaps you ought to speak with Lady Greyjoy yourself, Tyrion.”
“Me?” The Hand responded, startled at the idea. “There is so much to do, My Queen. I don’t know if I could spare the time.”
“You doubt her a great deal, but – correct me if I am wrong – you have never spoken to her yourself.” A slight, well-deserved accusation punctuated the queen’s tone. She paused momentarily, giving him the opportunity to interject. He, of course, did not. Tyrion knew that she was right – he had spoken of her quite often, but had never truly spoken to her at all. After the polite pause, Daenerys continued, “I’m sure she would not mind speaking with you. Plus, there is a topic you may be able to assist her with.”
That caught Tyrion’s attention instantly, and his eyes lit up with curiosity, “What would this topic be, Your Grace?”
“When she stopped by yesterday, we spoke of the Iron Islands. Or, more specifically, how they might regain their strength without a return to their old ways.” Daenerys replied, turning her attention away from him as she looked back over the city.
“The Ironborn are quite eager to return to their old ways, I have heard.” Tyrion added, distaste heavy in his tone. Reaving and raping, he thought, though the words did not need to be vocalized.
“According to Lady Asha,” Daenerys began, not noticing the raised eyebrow and uneasy disposition that her Hand immediately took on, “the Ironborn do not care for a return of the old ways themselves. She claims they have a great need for men to work their mines, and that they lack fertile ground to grow their crops. She says that her people miss when they were adequately supplied, seen as strong, and respected by the other kingdoms.”
Tyrion forced his surprise away just in time for the queen to turn to him once again, “According to her, the Ironborn believe that a return to the old ways is the only way to regain such things – but she hopes to find another solution.”
Tyrion’s mind began to race, focusing in on the problem that he had been presented. Maybe she was right. Maybe Lady Asha was right. Why did the Ironborn so desperately long for the days of old? Such a reasoning – that they missed their strength and time of plenty – was understandable, and quite plausible. But how could such a thing be achieved in the present day, absent of the wanton brutality? It was a conundrum indeed, and an answer would not be easy to come by.
“I can think on it, Your Grace,” Tyrion offered, pulling himself away from his internal musing. “I’ll go see Lady Greyjoy once I have something a bit more… substantial to offer.”
“Very well.” Daenerys acknowledged, turning her attention back toward Meereen. A troop of Unsullied was moving steadily toward the city gate, likely to switch with those patrolling area outside the city walls where the Dothraki had taken up residence.
“Though, if I may, Your Grace,” Tyrion tried, standing from the comfort of the chair, “I would advise that you avoid being alone with —”
“You may not.” Daenerys held no harshness in her tone, despite the suddenness of her response. She cast him only a momentary glance, before looking away once more, “I have taken your concerns into consideration, and I will continue to do so, but I will make my own choices as to who I choose to see.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Knowing that there was nothing he could do to change her mind, Tyrion offered a polite bow and took his leave.