Chapter 180

Tyrion thought his tangled, yellowish beard could reach his chest, his knotted, straw‑colored hair had grown much longer since leaving King's Landing—long enough to hide his mismatched eyes—and even his clothes blended in with the locals, so the famed Ser Barristan Selmy at the queen's side might not recognize him, though the old man kept glancing his way.

He also noticed the queen's occasional glances his way. After all this time on the run, had she ever seen someone as rare as him?

Quentyn Martell almost immediately revealed his true identity when he saw the queen, playing up his strengths to draw the queen's and Ser Barristan's attention.

He saw the old knight nearly leap up with excitement, as if the man standing below the steps were his white‑cloaked brother.

That's the power of a name—he almost instantly found an ally in the queen's court.

He hoped to catch Quentyn's eye and give him a hint, but being in front of everyone meant he couldn't see the little demon's flirtatious glance. He remembered that while he should play to his strengths, he also needed to avoid his weaknesses.

My father, Prince Doran, often yearns for the distant Targaryen exiles, but everyone is watching him, so he cannot directly shield you and your brother; when you wander abroad, he likewise cannot help you for the same reason.

His explanation came out haltingly; he could see the queen was in pain hearing it, but she kept a smile.

"Until your father hears news of the dragons?" she said with a gentle smile, cutting off Quentin's painful explanation.

Tyrion couldn't see the prince's face, but he could guess what he looked like now.

"No, no…" the prince waved his hand, saying, "My uncle Prince Oberyn once met Ser William Darry…" He couldn't continue.

"What brings you here?"

"My father, Prince Doran, hopes to become your ally when you retake Westeros, to give you strength, as long as you…" He trailed off abruptly.

The queen rose to her feet, drawing everyone's gaze.

"Very good!" the queen said, "Lately all I've heard are declarations of war against me, and everyone I've received wants to be my enemy—slave owners and foolish idiots. I'm glad to hear such good news." She said this, then sighed softly, "It's just a pity that Dorne is far away and can't help the current situation." She took a small step forward, smiling brightly, "Though the slave masters' armies outside are numerous, I already know their fighting strength; I believe that with the Unsullied, the Beast‑mounted troops, the Stormcrows, and all of your help we will surely defeat the enemy! Once we defeat the surrounding foes, I will surely return to Westeros someday to reclaim what belongs to the Targaryens, and when that time comes I will rely heavily on Dorne and on House Martell."

Tyrion really wanted to clap and cheer.

She is neither the timid girl he imagined nor a murderous madwoman; on the contrary, she looks like a young, beautiful woman, speaks fluently and clearly— a stark contrast to the frogs below—and she radiates the confident charm that captivates every young man.

Tyrion watched Quentin's dazed stare, feeling sympathy again; facing such a beautiful queen, his pressure could only increase, could it not?

Tyrion smiled, but he still hadn't revealed his true purpose; despite the queen's favor, he remained teachable, like a child.

The queen said, "I heard from the Widow—oh, the bald fellow who guided you in is called the Widow, he's the Stormcrows' quartermaster; looking at his angry, furious expression, you seem to have tricked him, huh." She broke the silence that was about to become awkward, asking, "Will the Windblown side join me?"

Prince Quentyn then answered the queen's question, recounting their difficult journey from Dorne to here. His story was reasonably clear, and Tyrion couldn't help but give a small nod—after all, he is a prince.

Only when the queen felt she had spent enough time on the distinguished guest did she turn her gaze to the little dwarf.

"Are you a mercenary of the Picnic Band?" the queen asked, eyeing him dubiously.

I am the dwarf of the Picnic Band. "I am the Picnic Band's envoy," he said, thanking the queen for her courtesy, but he still had to start with a lie, saying "Beautiful queen." At least that last part was true.

Your Grace, this man is Tyrion Lannister.

That name rings a bell. The queen looked at him, but I can't recall who he is, though I know the Lannisters.

How wonderful. I am the son of Tywin and Joanna Lannister; although Tywin does not acknowledge me, everyone believes I am his. He brushed back his hair slightly; compared to his name and lineage, the queen seemed more interested in the state of his face, which was a good thing— the Widow had beaten him, so hurry up and ask, Your Grace!

"You killed your father—I've heard that rumor."

"I didn't expect my good deed to spread so quickly." He forced a smile, "You must also have heard that Tywin Lannister's son killed your father; I must clarify that it was Tywin's other son who did it."

"Why are you here?"

"I told the Widow I came to deliver news that a mercenary company hired by Volantis has defected."

"Really?" the queen did not believe him.

"That's just a trivial bit of news," Tyrion saw the Widow staring at him sternly, but he didn't care; "I was actually sent here by Illyrio of Pentos."

"Interesting. Why would he arrange for you to come here? Is it to atone for your father and brother?"

He doesn't recall Tywin or Jaime giving him such instructions, nor did Illyrio say that. Some things need to be said, he thought: "The governor's original words were, 'My clever little brain can assist you; that's why I'm here.'"

"Why do I need your help?"

"The answer certainly isn't because I'm interesting," he muttered, "you should go ask Illyrio—you rule a vast domain, surely you need assistance, right?"

"I have plenty of people to help me."

"But there's no one like me." He felt it was a strain, the queen regarded him with deep hostility, "Your soldiers are measuring land inside the city, cleaning rooms and courtyards; I'm sure they're all confused now. If this task were given to me, I'd do it better than anyone. Oh, by the way, I really doubt your soldiers can even count properly. Goodness, you surely need plenty of people who can count to work for you? Governing a city will surely make you realize there's enough tedious work that requires literacy, writing, and management skills to handle." He almost began to beg, "Rule can't rely solely on an axe, though I wield mine fairly well."

Two Dornish men laughed at his jokes—a small achievement.

"I should add that when I just came of age I was appointed overseer of Casterly Rock's sewers, and I did a superb job—since then Casterly Rock has never been clogged."

"Mereen doesn't need its drains cleared, and I'm not lacking someone who can count and write."

"I know, Your Majesty, you lack many things, but you only need someone who can coordinate, and that would save you a portion."

"Griff, my new advisor, has done quite well in that regard," the queen said, pointing to the smiling old man beside her.

"Oh, hello, old man," he greeted Griff, but his eyes never left the queen; "He looks wise, but I don't know how much longer this body can hold up."

"At least it'll last longer than a crippled dwarf," the advisor said.

"With him, we don't need a hideous-looking dwarf."

She at least didn't call me ugly. "You should know, this face is the Widow's doing; I really wanted to come see you handsome, but he slapped me, so I ended up like this. The old knight beside you should know how handsome I once was—I'm, after all, the brother of the Seven Kingdoms' handsome man Jaime Lannister."

"You've never been handsome, little demon," Ser Barristan said.

"Your Grace, no matter what, I'm still very smart." The Iron Bank's revenge is lending money to the employer's enemies—damn, I can also give your enemies brainpower. "Your foreign advisor is excellent; I heard outside the city a strategy that made me want to applaud, but he ultimately doesn't know Westeros. You just said you will eventually return to Westeros."

"I don't understand, but the prince beside you does, and Ser Barristan at my side does as well. Your father and brother's actions have nothing to do with you; I could pardon you, but why do I need you—is it merely because of your eloquence and… tangled wisdom?"

Your Highness, the prince is a promising young man, and Ser Barristan is better suited to guard you at your side than to give counsel, but I disagree—I have served as Master of Coin and Hand of the King during your reign. He thought it would be better to swap their appointments, saying, "Everyone thinks I've done well. Moreover, I know the traits and habits of all your enemies and important figures in Westeros; I will help you win allies and find ways to defeat your foes—in short, I will increase your friends and decrease your enemies, and defeat them at the lowest cost." It was too difficult; he would rather sail to the North to try with another woman, but if he truly had to leave, he would more likely consider Dorne. However, he must wait until Prince Doran dies before going, for that man is not easily fooled. Oh, and afterward he would have to face another woman there.

Compared to your self‑nomination, perhaps I am more interested in the picnic band—are they willing to side with me? How many members do they have?

There are three hundred horsemen, all freemen, he said, relieved to be free of the job application, "they will not defect to you." He paused, "they have been yours from the start."

Why?

Because the commander is Jorah Mormont, he serves only the queen. He thought it best to dismiss his talk of never betraying for meaningless honor.

The queen finally stood up, but it didn't look like it was for him.