Chapter 176

Tyrion poured the last drop of water from his waterskin into his mouth, alleviating the thirst caused by the hot weather and his surging emotions.

It was no different from ordinary water; he was convinced that the water held neither divine blessing nor demonic curse.

Thinking back to when he encountered the Mother of the Lake, he felt it was fantastical—he had never seen anything so beyond comprehension in his life… No, before meeting the Mother of the Lake, he had seen the dragon that appeared countless times in his dreams; fantastical events occurred so frequently that he remained in a daze even now. Although partly due to the weather, largely it was because of the endless clamor and stench outside.

He was about to be driven mad.

He wanted to flip open his ill-fitting armor to let his hairy chest breathe and cool down, but this was a battlefield; he didn't want to lose his life to a possible queen's army ambush just for a moment's comfortable cooling.

Compared to the supposedly tight military camp, the surroundings looked more like a bustling market; therefore, he felt even more confident about the coalition's fate, even if the New Ghis legion truly possessed the iron‑blood discipline, stern formations, and glorious battlefield achievements of their seniors. In fact, the Old Ghis Empire's five defeats against the Valyrians already showed that even the tightest, most disciplined formations were no match for a dragon‑foe, let alone…

The New Ghis legion was on the other side of Meereen outside the city; he couldn't see it and had no way to judge their strength.

Their small mercenary band had been driven to a patchy grassland west of Meereen outside the city to set up camp; compared to the lively coalition encampment, they could barely be called quiet. Having been ravaged by dragons and ghost cavalry, they were now nothing more than a fragile little troupe; Tyrion felt they could be swallowed at any moment by the surrounding forces, and he believed Mormont and Ptolemy had chosen this remote spot for that very reason.

The location was remote, but it did not hinder his view of Meereen, for the city was simply too conspicuous.

When he was dozens of li outside the city, he could see Meereen's towering, majestic walls; he thought the city's walls might be more exaggerated than any in the world. Volantis's walls are high, but they stand on a delta plain—here they are built upon massive, rock‑solid foundations so exaggerated they seem to overlook endless yellow‑sand rocks on one side, gaze over the oasis plains on another, and afford a distant view of cloud‑free blue seas and ships.

From afar, Meereen's walls looked as if coated with an impermeable matte sheen; under the blazing sun the stone flashed a dull gleam, reminding him of the phrase "iron barrel." It truly was like an iron pipe. This coastal city sits on the cliff carved out by the sea's impact—neither high nor low—making it a perfect harbor for the bay. The city's eastern side—which he had not yet seen but had learned of through many days of conversation—is a massive rock wall extending from the city's foundations; if Volantis's great army wanted to take the city, they would have to pass through its awe‑inspiring natural passageway at the lower level. This passageway continues to link Volantis, Astapor, and the vast territories of Old Ghis; from the sea it connects to the eastern cedar islands, New Ghis, Qeylis, and the farthest east of the world.

Besides the passageway facing the eastern cities, Meereen retained a gate leading north to the Dothraki plains; along that direction lie rolling hills and hidden estates whose produce normally feeds the city and meets the residents' basic needs; to the east lies a gate opening onto the river, where the river, following the excavated channel before the city, forms a huge natural moat for Meereen. The moat splits here into two branches—one heading southwest, the other southeast. The southwestern branch follows the slightly raised cliff into rocky hills and, far out, descends into the sea.

When he heard that their drinking water also came from this moat, he refused to draw any more from the military waterskins and instead took a side path, risking a trip to a place said to be a sweetwater channel. Who knew what the city guards might toss into the water? With so many corpses inside the city, he doubted the soldiers would rather bury bodies or burn expensive firewood than simply dump them in the river—the Meereen queen had already raised her butcher's knife against the nobles within the city.

The closer he got to Meereen, the more contradictory his impression of the legendary Meereen queen became; if the tales of eating hearts during an eclipse and bathing in human blood at night were exaggerated, the fact that she filled the wilds with corpses and laid out bodies for tens of li was undeniable—he had seen it with his own eyes and smelled it with his own nose.

They had just emerged from the Demon's Road, turned onto an unnamed mountain dip, and entered a broad hilly region when they saw those sights. What impressed him most was not the hanged corpses but the enormous green‑headed flies of the eastern continent, whose buzzing din could be so maddening—after half a day of marching through stench, the flies' noise made him feel dizzy, and the image of the possibly dainty dragon queen in his mind completely turned into a respectable, fearsome, awe‑inspiring woman wearing the same garb as those green‑headed flies.

Obviously, she was using the "harpy's offspring" captured in Meereen to challenge every enemy army and proclaim her great undertaking. The plaques beneath the hanged bodies bore their names and identities; some plaques carried extra content, mainly the crimes they had committed, while a smaller portion held her solemn proclamation. The foolish slave masters had not yet felt the power of words; a single read made them feel as if heaven and earth could change color.

His Valyrian speech was passable, but he lacked skill in Valyrian writing, so he had to rely on others. The master of coin was willing to teach him the language, but reluctant to teach the script; he had to remind himself that not knowing Valyrian writing meant he could not serve the dragon queen, not serving the dragon queen meant he could not attain high office, and without high office he could not earn rich rewards—Casterly Rock—and without Casterly Rock he could not redeem the gold he had promised.

Ptolemy was amused by his reasoning and agreed to teach him during idle moments; he chose his timing well, standing beneath each hanged corpse and telling him word by word what was written above.

After looking at twenty wooden boards, he no longer needed Ptolemy. The wording was mostly the same, and once he discerned the pronunciation pattern and turned it into sound, he could roughly grasp the meaning. Having finished reading the boards of the hanged, he felt they essentially conveyed a single idea: they were enemies yet pardoned by the queen; they had enjoyed her trust, yet colluded with (or were themselves) the harpy's offspring, plotting to assassinate her, a worldwide emancipator of slaves. Their crimes were heinous, deserving the harshest punishment; therefore, to protect free folk from harm and to safeguard the fruits of emancipation, she would declare war on every slave‑holding city and challenge every slave master.

To wage war on everything, everything—he liked that phrasing. He remembered the conqueror using similar words against the kings entrenched in Westeros, and he felt compelled to share these discoveries with those around him, especially with Mormont, who had brought him here in this manner.

"After reading the queen's proclamation, I realized the attack isn't aimed at us," he teased Mormont with a smile, "at least in momentum, the queen has already launched the offensive. I feel I've already seen the day she mounts the battlements of King's Landing and chops off my older brother's head." He truly wished he could pre‑emptively wipe a tear for his brother.

"She certainly will," Mormont said, "and maybe she'll take your head as well."

"That's really unfair," he said. "I only killed my own father; I've only ever killed other people's fathers—my older brother and my older sister—yet I never killed hers. She ought to know her father was slain by a regicide. When my brother struck, I was mostly climbing trees in Casterly Rock. Ah, I was still small back then, thinking I might still grow taller; I'd long since decided tree‑climbing was useless, though no servant would willingly pull my legs and head in opposite directions all day, and I also wanted to sneakily do it, always hoping to wake up one morning suddenly taller, surprise my father into delight, and thereby declare myself the heir of Casterly Rock."

Damn it, the past is like lemon juice—every drop squeezed out is sour, bitter, and vexing.

"You share the same surname, you share the same bloodline."

"I and half the people of Lannisport share the same surname—but furthermore, my father disagrees; he says I'm not his son. Ah, people say, 'On one's deathbed one's words are good.' Damn it, this is what he said on his deathbed, spoken aloud; I can swear before the queen in the name of the heavenly Father and the holy Mother."

He thought Ser Jorah would scold him as a kin‑slayer, unworthy to invoke the heavenly Father and holy Mother; he had even prepared a retort—Mormont was no match for him in speech, whether in Valyrian or the common tongue, but once the knight fell silent, the little demon had no recourse at all.

When he finally saw the nailed‑up wooden board, he only then laughed, having drunk the last drop of water granted by the Mother of the Lake.

"Guess when the Volantian generals will finally think to take down those plaques and burn them?" he asked, yet he gave no answer. "Do you think the enslaved in the alliance and the coin‑grasping mercenary captains will turn their guns on the slave masters?" he remained silent. When Tyrion said, "I can convince some mercenary companies for you," he finally turned his head back to look at him and then replied with a single word.

Tyrion felt that, compared to the flies' buzzing, this was almost heavenly music.

"How to do it? Ha, ser, can you read and write? Oh, I just realized you're also a noble lord…"

"You don't need to say 'also'; although you were once a noble, you have never been a lord." The low voice almost choked him.

"Hah," he said, calming his mind and regaining his train of thought, "you can speak Valyrian, but you surely don't know Valyrian letters. Hehe, let me translate the words written on this board for you."

"You just started learning, didn't you?"

"I am, and I'm smart enough," he is smart enough, but regarding Valyrian reading and writing he is not completely without foundation—no need to tell him that—"let me translate a passage; this alone is the queen's wisdom, and only this makes me regard her as a true queen."

Mormont glanced at him, showed hesitation, then fell silent, but the words he wanted to say could no longer be contained. After slipping the pouch from his hand onto his waist, he finally spoke the translated sentence, feeling that that bunch of foolish slave masters were destined to go mad because of it:

"Under heaven, wherever the gods look, wherever blood and fire stain, all who wish to be my subjects, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, who either proclaim aloud or silently recite 'I am not a slave,' shall, regardless of the hindrance of shackles and chains, regardless of the binding of oaths and contracts, instantly be emancipated as free persons; thereafter, anyone who offends or deprives them shall be guilty; whoever hears this decree and yet grows worse in evil shall have their line utterly destroyed."