The ship was small, his cabin smaller, but the captain would not allow him abovedecks. The rocking of the deck beneath his feet made his stomach heave, and the wretched food tasted even worse when retched back up. But why did he need salt beef, hard cheese, and bread crawling with worms when he had wine to nourish him? It was red and sour, very strong. Sometimes he heaved the wine up too, but there was always more.
“The world is full of wine,” he muttered in the dankness of his cabin. His father never had any use for drunkards, but what did that matter? His father was dead. He’d killed him. A bolt in the belly1, my lord, and all for you. If only I was better with a crossbow, I would have put it through that cock you made me with, you bloody2 bastard3.
Belowdecks, there was neither night nor day. Tyrion marked time by the comings and goings of the cabin boy who brought the meals he did not eat. The boy always brought a brush and bucket too, to clean up. “Is this Dornish wine?” Tyrion asked him once, as he pulled a stopper from a skin. “It reminds me of a certain snake I knew. A droll5 fellow, till a mountain fell on him.”
The cabin boy did not answer. He was an ugly boy, though admittedly more comely6 than a certain dwarf7 with half a nose and a scar from eye to chin. “Have I offended you?” Tyrion asked, as the boy was scrubbing. “Were you commanded not to talk to me? Or did some dwarf diddle your mother?” That went unanswered too. “Where are we sailing? Tell me that.” Jaime had made mention of the Free Cities, but had never said which one. “Is it Braavos? Tyrosh? Myr?” Tyrion would sooner have gone to Dorne. Myrcella is older than Tommen, by Dornish law the Iron Throne is hers. I will help her claim her rights, as Prince Oberyn suggested.
Oberyn was dead, though, his head smashed to bloody ruin by the armored fist of Ser Gregor Clegane. And without the Red Viper8 to urge him on, would Doran Martell even consider such a chancy scheme? He might clap me in chains instead and hand me back to my sweet sister. The Wall might be safer. Old Bear Mormont said the Night’s Watch had need of men like Tyrion. Mormont might be dead, though. By now Slynt may be the lord commander. That butcher’s son was not like to have forgotten who sent him to the Wall. Do I really want to spend the rest of my life eating salt beef and porridge with murderers and thieves? Not that the rest of his life would last very long. Janos Slynt would see to that.
The cabin boy wet his brush and scrubbed on manfully. “Have you ever visited the pleasure houses of Lys?” the dwarf inquired. “Might that be where whores go?” Tyrion could not seem to recall the Valyrian word for whore, and in any case it was too late. The boy tossed his brush back in his bucket and took his leave.
The wine has blurred9 my wits. He had learned to read High Valyrian at his maester’s knee, though what they spoke10 in the Nine Free Cities … well, it was not so much a dialect as nine dialects on the way to becoming separate tongues. Tyrion had some Braavosi and a smattering of Myrish. In Tyrosh he should be able to curse the gods, call a man a cheat, and order up an ale, thanks to a sellsword he had once known at the Rock. At least in Dorne they speak the Common Tongue. Like Dornish food and Dornish law, Dornish speech was spiced with the flavors of the Rhoyne, but a man could comprehend it. Dorne, yes, Dorne for me. He crawled into his bunk11, clutching that thought like a child with a doll.
Sleep had never come easily to Tyrion Lannister. Aboard that ship it seldom came at all, though from time to time he managed to drink sufficient wine to pass out for a while. At least he did not dream. He had dreamed enough for one small life. And of such follies13: love, justice, friendship, glory. As well dream of being tall. It was all beyond his reach, Tyrion knew now. But he did not know where whores go.
“Wherever whores go,” his father had said. His last words, and what words they were. The crossbow thrummed, Lord Tywin sat back down, and Tyrion Lannister found himself waddling14 through the darkness with Varys at his side. He must have clambered back down the shaft15, two hundred and thirty rungs to where orange embers glowed in the mouth of an iron dragon. He remembered none of it. Only the sound the crossbow made, and the stink17 of his father’s bowels18 opening. Even in his dying, he found a way to shit on me.
Varys had escorted him through the tunnels, but they never spoke until they emerged beside the Blackwater, where Tyrion had won a famous victory and lost a nose. That was when the dwarf turned to the eunuch and said, “I’ve killed my father,” in the same tone a man might use to say, “I’ve stubbed my toe.”
The master of whisperers had been dressed as a begging brother, in a moth-eaten robe of brown roughspun with a cowl that shadowed his smooth fat cheeks and bald round head. “You should not have climbed that ladder,” he said reproachfully.
“Wherever whores go.” Tyrion had warned his father not to say that word. If I had not loosed, he would have seen my threats were empty. He would have taken the crossbow from my hands, as once he took Tysha from my arms. He was rising when I killed him.
“I killed Shae too,” he confessed to Varys.
“You knew what she was.”
“I did. But I never knew what he was.”
Varys tittered. “And now you do.”
I should have killed the eunuch as well. A little more blood on his hands, what would it matter? He could not say what had stayed his dagger20. Not gratitude21. Varys had saved him from a headsman’s sword, but only because Jaime had compelled him. Jaime … no, better not to think of Jaime.
He found a fresh skin of wine instead and sucked at it as if it were a woman’s breast. The sour red ran down his chin and soaked through his soiled tunic22, the same one he had been wearing in his cell. The deck was swaying beneath his feet, and when he tried to rise it lifted sideways and smashed him hard against a bulkhead. A storm, he realized, or else I am even drunker than I knew. He retched the wine up and lay in it a while, wondering if the ship would sink. Is this your vengeance23, Father? Has the Father Above made you his Hand? “Such are the wages of the kinslayer,” he said as the wind howled outside. It did not seem fair to drown the cabin boy and the captain and all the rest for something he had done, but when had the gods ever been fair? And around about then, the darkness gulped25 him down.
When he stirred again, his head felt like to burst and the ship was spinning round in dizzy circles, though the captain was insisting that they’d come to port. Tyrion told him to be quiet and kicked feebly as a huge bald sailor tucked him under one arm and carried him squirming to the hold, where an empty wine cask awaited him. It was a squat27 little cask, and a tight fit even for a dwarf. Tyrion pissed himself in his struggles, for all the good it did. He was crammed28 face-first into the cask with his knees pushed up against his ears. The stub of his nose itched29 horribly, but his arms were pinned so tightly that he could not reach to scratch it. A palanquin fit for a man of my stature30, he thought as they hammered shut the lid. He could hear voices shouting as he was hoisted31 up. Every bounce cracked his head against the bottom of the cask. The world went round and round as the cask rolled downward, then stopped with a crash that made him want to scream. Another cask slammed into his, and Tyrion bit his tongue.
That was the longest journey he had ever taken, though it could not have lasted more than half an hour. He was lifted and lowered, rolled and stacked, upended and righted and rolled again. Through the wooden staves he heard men shouting, and once a horse whickered nearby. His stunted32 legs began to cramp33, and soon hurt so badly that he forgot the hammering in his head.
It ended as it had begun, with another roll that left him dizzy and more jouncing. Outside, strange voices were speaking in a tongue he did not know. Someone started pounding on the top of the cask and the lid cracked open suddenly. Light came flooding in, and cool air as well. Tyrion gasped35 greedily and tried to stand, but only managed to knock the cask over sideways and spill himself out onto a hard-packed earthen floor.
Above him loomed36 a grotesque37 fat man with a forked yellow beard, holding a wooden mallet38 and an iron chisel39. His bedrobe was large enough to serve as a tourney pavilion, but its loosely knotted belt had come undone41, exposing a huge white belly and a pair of heavy breasts that sagged42 like sacks of suet covered with coarse yellow hair. He reminded Tyrion of a dead sea cow that had once washed up in the caverns43 under Casterly Rock.
The fat man looked down and smiled. “A drunken dwarf,” he said, in the Common Tongue of Westeros.
“A rotting sea cow.” Tyrion’s mouth was full of blood. He spat44 it at the fat man’s feet. They were in a long, dim cellar with barrel-vaulted ceilings, its stone walls spotted45 with nitre. Casks of wine and ale surrounded them, more than enough drink to see a thirsty dwarf safely through the night. Or through a life.
“You are insolent46. I like that in a dwarf.” When the fat man laughed, his flesh bounced so vigorously that Tyrion was afraid he might fall and crush him. “Are you hungry, my little friend? Weary?”
“Thirsty.” Tyrion struggled to his knees. “And filthy47.”
The fat man sniffed48. “A bath first, just so. Then food and a soft bed, yes? My servants shall see to it.” His host put the mallet and chisel aside. “My house is yours. Any friend of my friend across the water is a friend to Illyrio Mopatis, yes.”
And any friend of Varys the Spider is someone I will trust just as far as I can throw him.
The fat man made good on the promised bath, though. No sooner did Tyrion lower himself into the hot water and close his eyes than he was fast asleep. He woke naked on a goose-down feather bed so soft it felt as if he had been swallowed by a cloud. His tongue was growing hair and his throat was raw, but his cock was as hard as an iron bar. He rolled from the bed, found a chamber49 pot, and commenced to filling it, with a groan50 of pleasure.
The room was dim, but there were bars of yellow sunlight showing between the slats of the shutters51. Tyrion shook the last drops off and waddled52 over patterned Myrish carpets as soft as new spring grass. Awkwardly he climbed the window seat and flung the shutters open to see where Varys and the gods had sent him.
Beneath his window six cherry trees stood sentinel around a marble pool, their slender branches bare and brown. A naked boy stood on the water, poised53 to duel54 with a bravo’s blade in hand. He was lithe55 and handsome, no older than sixteen, with straight blond hair that brushed his shoulders. So lifelike did he seem that it took the dwarf a long moment to realize he was made of painted marble, though his sword shimmered56 like true steel.
Across the pool stood a brick wall twelve feet high, with iron spikes57 along its top. Beyond that was the city. A sea of tiled rooftops crowded close around a bay. He saw square brick towers, a great red temple, a distant manse upon a hill. In the far distance, sunlight shimmered off deep water. Fishing boats were moving across the bay, their sails rippling59 in the wind, and he could see the masts of larger ships poking60 up along the shore. Surely one is bound for Dorne, or for Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. He had no means to pay for passage, though, nor was he made to pull an oar12. I suppose I could sign on as a cabin boy and earn my way by letting the crew bugger me up and down the narrow sea.
He wondered where he was. Even the air smells different here. Strange spices scented61 the chilly62 autumn wind, and he could hear faint cries drifting over the wall from the streets beyond. It sounded something like Valyrian, but he did not recognize more than one word in five. Not Braavos, he concluded, nor Tyrosh. Those bare branches and the chill in the air argued against Lys and Myr and Volantis as well.
When he heard the door opening behind him, Tyrion turned to confront his fat host. “This is Pentos, yes?”
“Just so. Where else?”
Pentos. Well, it was not King’s Landing, that much could be said for it. “Where do whores go?” he heard himself ask.
“Whores are found in brothels here, as in Westeros. You will have no need of such, my little friend. Choose from amongst my servingwomen. None will dare refuse you.”
“Slaves?” the dwarf asked pointedly63.
The fat man stroked one of the prongs of his oiled yellow beard, a gesture Tyrion found remarkably65 obscene. “Slavery is forbidden in Pentos, by the terms of the treaty the Braavosi imposed on us a hundred years ago. Still, they will not refuse you.” Illyrio gave a ponderous66 half bow. “But now my little friend must excuse me. I have the honor to be a magister of this great city, and the prince has summoned us to session.” He smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked67 yellow teeth. “Explore the manse and grounds as you like, but on no account stray beyond the walls. It is best that no man knows that you were here.”
“Were? Have I gone somewhere?”
“Time enough to speak of that this evening. My little friend and I shall eat and drink and make great plans, yes?”
“Yes, my fat friend,” Tyrion replied. He thinks to use me for his profit. It was all profit with the merchant princes of the Free Cities. “Spice soldiers and cheese lords,” his lord father called them, with contempt. Should a day ever dawn when Illyrio Mopatis saw more profit in a dead dwarf than a live one, Tyrion would find himself packed into another wine cask by dusk. It would be well if I was gone before that day arrives. That it would arrive he did not doubt; Cersei was not like to forget him, and even Jaime might be vexed68 to find a quarrel in Father’s belly.
A light wind was riffling the waters of the pool below, all around the naked swordsman. It reminded him of how Tysha would riffle his hair during the false spring of their marriage, before he helped his father’s guardsmen rape69 her. He had been thinking of those guardsmen during his flight, trying to recall how many there had been. You would think he might remember that, but no. A dozen? A score? A hundred? He could not say. They had all been grown men, tall and strong … though all men were tall to a dwarf of thirteen years. Tysha knew their number. Each of them had given her a silver stag, so she would only need to count the coins. A silver for each and a gold for me. His father had insisted that he pay her too. A Lannister always pays his debts.
“Wherever whores go,” he heard Lord Tywin say once more, and once more the bowstring thrummed.
The magister had invited him to explore the manse. He found clean clothes in a cedar70 chest inlaid with lapis and mother-of-pearl. The clothes had been made for a small boy, he realized as he struggled into them. The fabrics71 were rich enough, if a little musty, but the cut was too long in the legs and too short in the arms, with a collar that would have turned his face as black as Joffrey’s had he somehow contrived72 to get it fastened. Moths73 had been at them too. At least they do not stink of vomit74.
Tyrion began his explorations with the kitchen, where two fat women and a potboy watched him warily75 as he helped himself to cheese, bread, and figs76. “Good morrow to you, fair ladies,” he said with a bow. “Do you know where whores go?” When they did not respond, he repeated the question in High Valyrian, though he had to say courtesan in place of whore. The younger, fatter cook gave him a shrug77 that time.
He wondered what they would do if he took them by the hand and dragged them to his bedchamber. None will dare refuse you, Illyrio claimed, but somehow Tyrion did not think he meant these two. The younger woman was old enough to be his mother, and the older was likely her mother. Both were near as fat as Illyrio, with teats that were larger than his head. I could smother78 myself in flesh. There were worse ways to die. The way his lord father had died, for one. I should have made him shit a little gold before expiring. Lord Tywin might have been niggardly79 with his approval and affection, but he had always been open-handed when it came to coin. The only thing more pitiful than a dwarf without a nose is a dwarf without a nose who has no gold.
Tyrion left the fat women to their loaves and kettles and went in search of the cellar where Illyrio had decanted80 him the night before. It was not hard to find. There was enough wine there to keep him drunk for a hundred years; sweet reds from the Reach and sour reds from Dorne, pale Pentoshi ambers, the green nectar of Myr, three score casks of Arbor81 gold, even wines from the fabled82 east, from Qarth and Yi Ti and Asshai by the Shadow. In the end, Tyrion chose a cask of strongwine marked as the private stock of Lord Runceford Redwyne, the grandfather of the present Lord of the Arbor. The taste of it was languorous83 and heady on the tongue, the color a purple so dark that it looked almost black in the dim-lit cellar. Tyrion filled a cup, and a flagon for good measure, and carried them up to the gardens to drink beneath those cherry trees he’d seen.
As it happened, he left by the wrong door and never found the pool he had spied from his window, but it made no matter. The gardens behind the manse were just as pleasant, and far more extensive. He wandered through them for a time, drinking. The walls would have shamed any proper castle, and the ornamental84 iron spikes along the top looked strangely naked without heads to adorn85 them. Tyrion pictured how his sister’s head might look up there, with tar4 in her golden hair and flies buzzing in and out of her mouth. Yes, and Jaime must have the spike58 beside her, he decided86. No one must ever come between my brother and my sister.
With a rope and a grapnel he might be able to get over that wall. He had strong arms and he did not weigh much. He should be able to clamber over, if he did not impale87 himself on a spike. I will search for a rope on the morrow, he resolved.
He saw three gates during his wanderings—the main entrance with its gatehouse, a postern by the kennels88, and a garden gate hidden behind a tangle89 of pale ivy90. The last was chained, the others guarded. The guards were plump, their faces as smooth as babies’ bottoms, and every man of them wore a spiked91 bronze cap. Tyrion knew eunuchs when he saw them. He knew their sort by reputation. They feared nothing and felt no pain, it was said, and were loyal to their masters unto death. I could make good use of a few hundred of mine own, he reflected. A pity I did not think of that before I became a beggar.
He walked along a pillared gallery and through a pointed64 arch, and found himself in a tiled courtyard where a woman was washing clothes at a well. She looked to be his own age, with dull red hair and a broad face dotted by freckles92. “Would you like some wine?” he asked her. She looked at him uncertainly. “I have no cup for you, we’ll have to share.” The washerwoman went back to wringing93 out tunics94 and hanging them to dry. Tyrion settled on a stone bench with his flagon. “Tell me, how far should I trust Magister Illyrio?” The name made her look up. “That far?” Chuckling95, he crossed his stunted legs and took a drink. “I am loath96 to play whatever part the cheesemonger has in mind for me, yet how can I refuse him? The gates are guarded. Perhaps you might smuggle97 me out under your skirts? I’d be so grateful; why, I’ll even wed16 you. I have two wives already, why not three? Ah, but where would we live?” He gave her as pleasant a smile as a man with half a nose could manage. “I have a niece in Sunspear, did I tell you? I could make rather a lot of mischief98 in Dorne with Myrcella. I could set my niece and nephew at war, wouldn’t that be droll?” The washerwoman pinned up one of Illyrio’s tunics, large enough to double as a sail. “I should be ashamed to think such evil thoughts, you’re quite right. Better if I sought the Wall instead. All crimes are wiped clean when a man joins the Night’s Watch, they say. Though I fear they would not let me keep you, sweetling. No women in the Watch, no sweet freckly99 wives to warm your bed at night, only cold winds, salted cod100, and small beer. Do you think I might stand taller in black, my lady?” He filled his cup again. “What do you say? North or south? Shall I atone101 for old sins or make some new ones?”
The washerwoman gave him one last glance, picked up her basket, and walked away. I cannot seem to hold a wife for very long, Tyrion reflected. Somehow his flagon had gone dry. Perhaps I should stumble back down to the cellars. The strongwine was making his head spin, though, and the cellar steps were very steep. “Where do whores go?” he asked the wash flapping on the line. Perhaps he should have asked the washerwoman. Not to imply that you’re a whore, my dear, but perhaps you know where they go. Or better yet, he should have asked his father. “Wherever whores go,” Lord Tywin said. She loved me. She was a crofter’s daughter, she loved me and she wed me, she put her trust in me.
The empty flagon slipped from his hand and rolled across the yard. Tyrion pushed himself off the bench and went to fetch it. As he did, he saw some mushrooms growing up from a cracked paving tile. Pale white they were, with speckles, and red-ribbed undersides dark as blood. The dwarf snapped one off and sniffed it. Delicious, he thought, and deadly.
There were seven of the mushrooms. Perhaps the Seven were trying to tell him something. He picked them all, snatched a glove down from the line, wrapped them carefully, and stuffed them down his pocket. The effort made him dizzy, so afterward102 he crawled back onto the bench, curled up, and shut his eyes.
When he woke again, he was back in his bedchamber, drowning in the goose-down feather bed once more while a blond girl shook his shoulder. “My lord,” she said, “your bath awaits. Magister Illyrio expects you at table within the hour.”
Tyrion propped103 himself against the pillows, his head in his hands. “Do I dream, or do you speak the Common Tongue?”
“Yes, my lord. I was bought to please the king.” She was blue-eyed and fair, young and willowy.
“I am sure you did. I need a cup of wine.”
She poured for him. “Magister Illyrio said that I am to scrub your back and warm your bed. My name—”
“—is of no interest to me. Do you know where whores go?”
She flushed. “Whores sell themselves for coin.”
“Or jewels, or gowns, or castles. But where do they go?”
The girl could not grasp the question. “Is it a riddle104, m’lord? I’m no good at riddles105. Will you tell me the answer?”
No, he thought. I despise riddles, myself. “I will tell you nothing. Do me the same favor.” The only part of you that interests me is the part between your legs, he almost said. The words were on his tongue, but somehow never passed his lips. She is not Shae, the dwarf told himself, only some little fool who thinks I play at riddles. If truth be told, even her cunt did not interest him much. I must be sick, or dead. “You mentioned a bath? We must not keep the great cheesemonger waiting.”
As he bathed, the girl washed his feet, scrubbed his back, and brushed his hair. Afterward she rubbed sweet-smelling ointment106 into his calves107 to ease the aches, and dressed him once again in boy’s clothing, a musty pair of burgundy breeches and a blue velvet108 doublet lined with cloth-of-gold. “Will my lord want me after he has eaten?” she asked as she was lacing up his boots.
“No. I am done with women.” Whores.
The girl took that disappointment too well for his liking109. “If m’lord would prefer a boy, I can have one waiting in his bed.”
M’lord would prefer his wife. M’lord would prefer a girl named Tysha. “Only if he knows where whores go.”
The girl’s mouth tightened110. She despises me, he realized, but no more than I despise myself. That he had fucked many a woman who loathed111 the very sight of him, Tyrion Lannister had no doubt, but the others had at least the grace to feign112 affection. A little honest loathing113 might be refreshing114, like a tart34 wine after too much sweet.
“I believe I have changed my mind,” he told her. “Wait for me abed. Naked, if you please, I’ll be a deal too drunk to fumble115 at your clothing. Keep your mouth shut and your thighs116 open and the two of us should get on splendidly.” He gave her a leer, hoping for a taste of fear, but all she gave him was revulsion. No one fears a dwarf. Even Lord Tywin had not been afraid, though Tyrion had held a crossbow in his hands. “Do you moan when you are being fucked?” he asked the bedwarmer.
“If it please m’lord.”
“It might please m’lord to strangle you. That’s how I served my last whore. Do you think your master would object? Surely not. He has a hundred more like you, but no one else like me.” This time, when he grinned, he got the fear he wanted.
Illyrio was reclining on a padded couch, gobbling hot peppers and pearl onions from a wooden bowl. His brow was dotted with beads118 of sweat, his pig’s eyes shining above his fat cheeks. Jewels danced when he moved his hands; onyx and opal, tiger’s eye and tourmaline, ruby119, amethyst120, sapphire121, emerald, jet and jade122, a black diamond, and a green pearl. I could live for years on his rings, Tyrion mused123, though I’d need a cleaver124 to claim them.
“Come sit, my little friend.” Illyrio waved him closer.
The dwarf clambered up onto a chair. It was much too big for him, a cushioned throne intended to accommodate the magister’s massive buttocks, with thick sturdy legs to bear his weight. Tyrion Lannister had lived all his life in a world that was too big for him, but in the manse of Illyrio Mopatis the sense of disproportion assumed grotesque dimensions. I am a mouse in a mammoth125’s lair126, he mused, though at least the mammoth keeps a good cellar. The thought made him thirsty. He called for wine.
“Did you enjoy the girl I sent you?” Illyrio asked.
“If I had wanted a girl I would have asked for one.”
“If she failed to please …”
“She did all that was required of her.”
“I would hope so. She was trained in Lys, where they make an art of love. The king enjoyed her greatly.”
“I kill kings, hadn’t you heard?” Tyrion smiled evilly over his wine cup. “I want no royal leavings.”
“As you wish. Let us eat.” Illyrio clapped his hands together, and serving men came running.
They began with a broth19 of crab127 and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails128 in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig. The sight of it all made Tyrion feel queasy130, but he forced himself to try a spoon of soup for the sake of politeness, and once he had tasted it he was lost. The cooks might be old and fat, but they knew their business. He had never eaten so well, even at court.
As he was sucking the meat off the bones of his quail129, he asked Illyrio about the morning’s summons. The fat man shrugged131. “There are troubles in the east. Astapor has fallen, and Meereen. Ghiscari slave cities that were old when the world was young.” The suckling pig was carved. Illyrio reached for a piece of the crackling, dipped it in a plum sauce, and ate it with his fingers.
“Slaver’s Bay is a long way from Pentos.” Tyrion speared a goose liver on the point of his knife. No man is as cursed as the kinslayer, he mused, but I could learn to like this hell.
“This is so,” Illyrio agreed, “but the world is one great web, and a man dare not touch a single strand132 lest all the others tremble. More wine?” Illyrio popped a pepper into his mouth. “No, something better.” He clapped his hands together.
At the sound a serving man entered with a covered dish. He placed it in front of Tyrion, and Illyrio leaned across the table to remove the lid. “Mushrooms,” the magister announced, as the smell wafted133 up. “Kissed with garlic and bathed in butter. I am told the taste is exquisite134. Have one, my friend. Have two.”
Tyrion had a fat black mushroom halfway135 to his mouth, but something in Illyrio’s voice made him stop abruptly136. “After you, my lord.” He pushed the dish toward his host.
“No, no.” Magister Illyrio pushed the mushrooms back. For a heartbeat it seemed as if a mischievous137 boy was peering out from inside the cheesemonger’s bloated flesh. “After you. I insist. Cook made them specially138 for you.”
“Did she indeed?” He remembered the cook, the flour on her hands, heavy breasts shot through with dark blue veins139. “That was kind of her, but … no.” Tyrion eased the mushroom back into the lake of butter from which it had emerged.
“You are too suspicious.” Illyrio smiled through his forked yellow beard. Oiled every morning to make it gleam like gold, Tyrion suspected. “Are you craven? I had not heard that of you.”
“In the Seven Kingdoms it is considered a grave breach140 of hospitality to poison your guest at supper.”
“Here as well.” Illyrio Mopatis reached for his wine cup. “Yet when a guest plainly wishes to end his own life, why, his host must oblige him, no?” He took a gulp26. “Magister Ordello was poisoned by a mushroom not half a year ago. The pain is not so much, I am told. Some cramping141 in the gut142, a sudden ache behind the eyes, and it is done. Better a mushroom than a sword through your neck, is it not so? Why die with the taste of blood in your mouth when it could be butter and garlic?”
The dwarf studied the dish before him. The smell of garlic and butter had his mouth watering. Some part of him wanted those mushrooms, even knowing what they were. He was not brave enough to take cold steel to his own belly, but a bite of mushroom would not be so hard. That frightened him more than he could say. “You mistake me,” he heard himself say.
“Is it so? I wonder. If you would sooner drown in wine, say the word and it shall be done, and quickly. Drowning cup by cup wastes time and wine both.”
“You mistake me,” Tyrion said again, more loudly. The buttered mushrooms glistened143 in the lamplight, dark and inviting144. “I have no wish to die, I promise you. I have …” His voice trailed off into uncertainty145. What do I have? A life to live? Work to do? Children to raise, lands to rule, a woman to love?
“You have nothing,” finished Magister Illyrio, “but we can change that.” He plucked a mushroom from the butter, and chewed it lustily. “Delicious.”
“The mushrooms are not poisoned.” Tyrion was irritated.
“No. Why should I wish you ill?” Magister Illyrio ate another. “We must show a little trust, you and I. Come, eat.” He clapped his hands again. “We have work to do. My little friend must keep his strength up.”
The serving men brought out a heron stuffed with figs, veal146 cutlets blanched147 with almond milk, creamed herring, candied onions, foul-smelling cheeses, plates of snails148 and sweetbreads, and a black swan in her plumage. Tyrion refused the swan, which reminded him of a supper with his sister. He helped himself to heron and herring, though, and a few of the sweet onions. And the serving men filled his wine cup anew each time he emptied it.
“You drink a deal of wine for such a little man.”
“Kinslaying is dry work. It gives a man a thirst.”
The fat man’s eyes glittered like the gemstones on his fingers. “There are those in Westeros who would say that killing149 Lord Lannister was merely a good beginning.”
“They had best not say it in my sister’s hearing, or they will find themselves short a tongue.” The dwarf tore a loaf of bread in half. “And you had best be careful what you say of my family, magister. Kinslayer or no, I am a lion still.”
That seemed to amuse the lord of cheese no end. He slapped a meaty thigh117 and said, “You Westerosi are all the same. You sew some beast upon a scrap150 of silk, and suddenly you are all lions or dragons or eagles. I can take you to a real lion, my little friend. The prince keeps a pride in his menagerie. Would you like to share a cage with them?”
The lords of the Seven Kingdoms did make rather much of their sigils, Tyrion had to admit. “Very well,” he conceded. “A Lannister is not a lion. Yet I am still my father’s son, and Jaime and Cersei are mine to kill.”
“How odd that you should mention your fair sister,” said Illyrio, between snails. “The queen has offered a lordship to the man who brings her your head, no matter how humble151 his birth.”
It was no more than Tyrion had expected. “If you mean to take her up on it, make her spread her legs for you as well. The best part of me for the best part of her, that’s a fair trade.”
“I would sooner have mine own weight in gold.” The cheesemonger laughed so hard that Tyrion feared he was about to rupture152. “All the gold in Casterly Rock, why not?”
“The gold I grant you,” the dwarf said, relieved that he was not about to drown in a gout of half-digested eels153 and sweetmeats, “but the Rock is mine.”
“Just so.” The magister covered his mouth and belched154 a mighty156 belch155. “Do you think King Stannis will give it to you? I am told he is a great one for the law. Your brother wears the white cloak, so you are heir by all the laws of Westeros.”
“Stannis might well grant me Casterly Rock,” said Tyrion, “but for the small matter of regicide and kinslaying. For those he would shorten me by a head, and I am short enough as I stand. But why would you think I mean to join Lord Stannis?”
“Why else would you go the Wall?”
“Stannis is at the Wall?” Tyrion rubbed at his nose. “What in seven bloody hells is Stannis doing at the Wall?”
“Shivering, I would think. It is warmer down in Dorne. Perhaps he should have sailed that way.”
Tyrion was beginning to suspect that a certain freckled157 washerwoman knew more of the Common Speech than she pretended. “My niece Myrcella is in Dorne, as it happens. And I have half a mind to make her a queen.”
Illyrio smiled as his serving men spooned out bowls of black cherries in sweet cream for them both. “What has this poor child done to you that you would wish her dead?”
“Even a kinslayer is not required to slay24 all his kin,” said Tyrion, wounded. “Queen her, I said. Not kill her.”
The cheesemonger spooned up cherries. “In Volantis they use a coin with a crown on one face and a death’s-head on the other. Yet it is the same coin. To queen her is to kill her. Dorne might rise for Myrcella, but Dorne alone is not enough. If you are as clever as our friend insists, you know this.”
Tyrion looked at the fat man with new interest. He is right on both counts. To queen her is to kill her. And I knew that. “Futile gestures are all that remain to me. This one would make my sister weep bitter tears, at least.”
Magister Illyrio wiped sweet cream from his mouth with the back of a fat hand. “The road to Casterly Rock does not go through Dorne, my little friend. Nor does it run beneath the Wall. Yet there is such a road, I tell you.”
“I am an attainted traitor158, a regicide, and kinslayer.” This talk of roads annoyed him. Does he think this is a game?
“What one king does, another may undo40. In Pentos we have a prince, my friend. He presides at ball and feast and rides about the city in a palanquin of ivory and gold. Three heralds159 go before him with the golden scales of trade, the iron sword of war, and the silver scourge160 of justice. On the first day of each new year he must deflower the maid of the fields and the maid of the seas.” Illyrio leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Yet should a crop fail or a war be lost, we cut his throat to appease161 the gods and choose a new prince from amongst the forty families.”
“Remind me never to become the Prince of Pentos.”
“Are your Seven Kingdoms so different? There is no peace in Westeros, no justice, no faith … and soon enough, no food. When men are starving and sick of fear, they look for a savior.”
“They may look, but if all they find is Stannis—”
“Not Stannis. Nor Myrcella.” The yellow smile widened. “Another. Stronger than Tommen, gentler than Stannis, with a better claim than the girl Myrcella. A savior come from across the sea to bind162 up the wounds of bleeding Westeros.”
“Fine words.” Tyrion was unimpressed. “Words are wind. Who is this bloody savior?”
“A dragon.” The cheesemonger saw the look on his face at that, and laughed. “A dragon with three heads.”
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1
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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2
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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bastard
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| n.坏蛋，混蛋；私生子 | |
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tar
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| n.柏油，焦油；vt.涂或浇柏油/焦油于 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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comely
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| adj.漂亮的，合宜的 | |
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dwarf
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| n.矮子，侏儒，矮小的动植物；vt.使…矮小 | |
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8
viper
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| n.毒蛇；危险的人 | |
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blurred
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| v.（使）变模糊( blur的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）难以区分；模模糊糊；迷离 | |
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10
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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oar
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| n.桨，橹，划手；v.划行 | |
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follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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14
waddling
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的现在分词 ) | |
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shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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wed
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| v.娶，嫁，与…结婚 | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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bowels
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| n.肠，内脏，内部；肠( bowel的名词复数 )；内部，最深处 | |
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broth
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| n.原(汁)汤(鱼汤、肉汤、菜汤等) | |
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20
dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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vengeance
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| n.报复，报仇，复仇 | |
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24
slay
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| v.杀死，宰杀，杀戮 | |
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25
gulped
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| v.狼吞虎咽地吃，吞咽( gulp的过去式和过去分词 )；大口地吸（气）；哽住 | |
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26
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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27
squat
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| v.蹲坐，蹲下；n.蹲下；adj.矮胖的，粗矮的 | |
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28
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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29
itched
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| v.发痒( itch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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stature
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| n.（高度）水平，（高度）境界，身高，身材 | |
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31
hoisted
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| 把…吊起，升起( hoist的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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32
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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33
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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34
tart
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| adj.酸的；尖酸的，刻薄的；n.果馅饼；淫妇 | |
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35
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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36
loomed
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| v.隐约出现，阴森地逼近( loom的过去式和过去分词 )；隐约出现，阴森地逼近 | |
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37
grotesque
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| adj.怪诞的，丑陋的；n.怪诞的图案，怪人（物） | |
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38
mallet
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| n.槌棒 | |
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39
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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40
undo
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| vt.解开，松开；取消，撤销 | |
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41
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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42
sagged
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| 下垂的 | |
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43
caverns
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| 大山洞，大洞穴( cavern的名词复数 ) | |
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44
spat
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| n.口角，掌击；v.发出呼噜呼噜声 | |
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45
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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46
insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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47
filthy
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| adj.卑劣的；恶劣的，肮脏的 | |
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48
sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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49
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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50
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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51
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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52
waddled
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| v.（像鸭子一样）摇摇摆摆地走( waddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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54
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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55
lithe
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| adj.(指人、身体)柔软的，易弯的 | |
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56
shimmered
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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57
spikes
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| n.穗( spike的名词复数 )；跑鞋；（防滑）鞋钉；尖状物v.加烈酒于( spike的第三人称单数 )；偷偷地给某人的饮料加入（更多）酒精（ 或药物）；把尖状物钉入；打乱某人的计划 | |
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58
spike
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| n.长钉，钉鞋；v.以大钉钉牢，使...失效 | |
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59
rippling
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| 起涟漪的，潺潺流水般声音的 | |
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60
poking
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| n. 刺，戳，袋 vt. 拨开，刺，戳 vi. 戳，刺，捅，搜索，伸出，行动散慢 | |
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61
scented
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| adj.有香味的；洒香水的；有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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62
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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63
pointedly
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| adv.尖地，明显地 | |
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64
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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65
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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66
ponderous
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| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
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67
crooked
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| adj.弯曲的；不诚实的，狡猾的，不正当的 | |
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68
vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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69
rape
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| n.抢夺，掠夺，强奸；vt.掠夺，抢夺，强奸 | |
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70
cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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71
fabrics
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| 织物( fabric的名词复数 )； 布； 构造； （建筑物的）结构（如墙、地面、屋顶）：质地 | |
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72
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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73
moths
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| n.蛾( moth的名词复数 ) | |
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74
vomit
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| v.呕吐，作呕；n.呕吐物，吐出物 | |
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75
warily
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| adv.留心地 | |
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76
figs
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| figures 数字，图形，外形 | |
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77
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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78
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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79
niggardly
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| adj.吝啬的，很少的 | |
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80
decanted
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| v.将（酒等）自瓶中倒入另一容器( decant的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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81
arbor
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| n.凉亭；树木 | |
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82
fabled
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| adj.寓言中的，虚构的 | |
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83
languorous
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| adj.怠惰的，没精打采的 | |
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84
ornamental
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| adj.装饰的；作装饰用的；n.装饰品；观赏植物 | |
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85
adorn
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| vt.使美化，装饰 | |
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86
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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87
impale
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| v.用尖物刺某人、某物 | |
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88
kennels
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| n.主人外出时的小动物寄养处，养狗场；狗窝( kennel的名词复数 )；养狗场 | |
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89
tangle
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| n.纠缠；缠结；混乱；v.(使)缠绕；变乱 | |
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90
ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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91
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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92
freckles
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| n.雀斑，斑点( freckle的名词复数 ) | |
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93
wringing
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| 淋湿的，湿透的 | |
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94
tunics
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| n.（动植物的）膜皮( tunic的名词复数 )；束腰宽松外衣；一套制服的短上衣；（天主教主教等穿的）短祭袍 | |
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95
chuckling
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| 轻声地笑( chuckle的现在分词 ) | |
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96
loath
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| adj.不愿意的；勉强的 | |
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97
smuggle
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| vt.私运；vi.走私 | |
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98
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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99
freckly
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| adj.多雀斑的 | |
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100
cod
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| n.鳕鱼；v.愚弄；哄骗 | |
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101
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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102
afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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103
propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
riddle
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| n.谜，谜语，粗筛；vt.解谜，给…出谜，筛，检查，鉴定，非难，充满于；vi.出谜 | |
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105
riddles
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| n.谜（语）( riddle的名词复数 )；猜不透的难题，难解之谜 | |
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106
ointment
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| n.药膏，油膏，软膏 | |
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107
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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108
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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109
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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110
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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111
loathed
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| v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的过去式和过去分词 )；极不喜欢 | |
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112
feign
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| vt.假装，佯作 | |
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113
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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114
refreshing
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| adj.使精神振作的，使人清爽的，使人喜欢的 | |
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115
fumble
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| vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等，摸索 | |
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116
thighs
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| n.股，大腿( thigh的名词复数 )；食用的鸡（等的）腿 | |
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117
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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118
beads
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| n.（空心）小珠子( bead的名词复数 )；水珠；珠子项链 | |
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119
ruby
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| n.红宝石，红宝石色 | |
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120
amethyst
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| n.紫水晶 | |
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121
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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122
jade
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| n.玉石；碧玉；翡翠 | |
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123
mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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124
cleaver
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| n.切肉刀 | |
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125
mammoth
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| n.长毛象；adj.长毛象似的，巨大的 | |
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126
lair
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| n.野兽的巢穴；躲藏处 | |
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127
crab
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| n.螃蟹，偏航，脾气乖戾的人，酸苹果；vi.捕蟹，偏航，发牢骚；vt.使偏航，发脾气 | |
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128
quails
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| 鹌鹑( quail的名词复数 )； 鹌鹑肉 | |
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129
quail
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| n.鹌鹑；vi.畏惧，颤抖 | |
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130
queasy
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| adj.易呕的 | |
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131
shrugged
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| vt.耸肩（shrug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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132
strand
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| vt.使（船）搁浅，使（某人）困于（某地） | |
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133
wafted
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| v.吹送，飘送，（使）浮动( waft的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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134
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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136
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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137
mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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138
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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139
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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140
breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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141
cramping
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| 图像压缩 | |
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142
gut
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| n.[pl.]胆量；内脏；adj.本能的；vt.取出内脏 | |
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143
glistened
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| v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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144
inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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145
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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146
veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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147
blanched
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| v.使变白( blanch的过去式 )；使（植物）不见阳光而变白；酸洗（金属）使有光泽；用沸水烫（杏仁等）以便去皮 | |
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148
snails
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| n.蜗牛；迟钝的人；蜗牛( snail的名词复数 ) | |
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149
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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150
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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151
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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152
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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153
eels
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| abbr. 电子发射器定位系统（=electronic emitter location system） | |
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154
belched
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| v.打嗝( belch的过去式和过去分词 )；喷出，吐出；打（嗝）；嗳（气） | |
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155
belch
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| v.打嗝，喷出 | |
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156
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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157
freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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158
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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159
heralds
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| n.使者( herald的名词复数 )；预报者；预兆；传令官v.预示( herald的第三人称单数 )；宣布（好或重要） | |
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160
scourge
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| n.灾难，祸害；v.蹂躏 | |
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161
appease
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| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
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162
bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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