The Stench and Blade of Flea Bottom
Pentos's Flea Bottom was perpetually permeated by three lingering odors: the fishy smell of rotting catches, the sour stench of cheap ale, and the persistent body odor of its lower-class inhabitants.
Tyrion huddled in the darkest corner of "The Broken Oar Tavern," a ceramic bowl of amber ale before him.
The ale was so murky he could see the dregs at the bottom of the bowl—yet this was the safest hiding place Tyrion could find.
After all, no Lannister hunter would ever imagine that the former Hand, the kinslayer Tyrion Lannister, would be hiding in a place even rats disdained.
"Another bowl, the imp!"
The tavern owner was a one-eyed fat man, a rusty scimitar tucked into his belt.
Each time he poured Tyrion a drink, his single eye would fix on Tyrion's legs like a viper.
"I hear the Lannister family has a ten-thousand-gold-dragon bounty on you.
If I were to tie you up and send you back..."
Tyrion tapped the ceramic bowl with his finger, producing a crisp sound, his gaze never leaving the door—where a tattered fishing net hung, a few strands of seaweed still entangled in its mesh.
Through the net, he could see the Pentos guards patrolling the street, their breastplates etched with the Lannister lion sigil.
"Owner," Tyrion began slowly, his voice low with a hint of deliberate hoarseness, "Do you know what Lannister gold coins look like?"
He paused, clearly not expecting Tyrion's question.
Tyrion pulled a crumpled silver coin from his pocket—his payment for helping a spice merchant with his accounts yesterday.
Its edges were so worn the pattern was indistinguishable.
"If a 'fugitive' like Tyrion had gold dragons on him, he'd have been robbed long ago.
Besides, do you really think Cersei Lannister would pay ten thousand gold dragons?
She even skimps on paying her soldiers; she'd just give you a knife and say, 'Thank you for solving a problem for me.'"
The tavern owner's expression shifted, his single eye flickering with hesitation.
Tyrion seized the opportunity to lift his ceramic bowl and take a sip of ale.
The ale's sourness spread across his tongue, yet it sharpened his mind—since escaping King's Landing by ship across Blackwater Bay, Tyrion had changed his identity seven times, from a "map-selling scholar" to a "ship-repairing craftsman."
Each time, he had to be meticulously careful, fearing recognition by Cersei's people.
After Tywin's death, Cersei had gone completely mad.
She not only put a bounty on Tyrion's head but also ordered the burning of all books related to the "Lannister bastard," as if to erase Tyrion completely from this world.
"What are they searching for outside?" Tyrion gestured towards the door, his gaze falling on the wanted poster at the guard's waist—though he couldn't make out the portrait, Tyrion could guess it depicted an ugly the imp, with charges like "kinslayer, traitor" written beside it.
"What else could it be?" The owner lowered his voice, leaning closer, his ale-breath hitting Tyrion's face.
"They're looking for a 'red-hatted the imp,' said to have escaped from King's Landing, carrying Lannister family secrets.
But I think it's just Cersei trying to cut off the roots, after all, you're her only brother..."
"Brother?" Tyrion sneered, his fingers unconsciously reaching for his waist—where Tywin's dagger should have hung, but it had been stolen by a pirate during his escape, leaving only an empty sheath.
"Cersei never saw Tyrion as a brother.
She only saw Tyrion as a disgrace, a monster to be hidden in a closet.
Tywin was the same; he'd rather trust Jaime, that fool who only knows how to swing a sword, than admit Tyrion understood power better than him."
Just then, the fishing net at the door suddenly stirred, and a man in a coarse cloth cloak entered, his hood pulled low, obscuring most of his face.
He walked directly towards Tyrion, his steps steady, not like a commoner coming for a drink.
Tyrion instinctively gripped the small knife hidden in his sleeve—he'd snatched it from a beggar, its blade only three inches long, but enough to slit a throat.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister?" The man's voice was soft, yet it carried a peculiar penetrating quality that cut through the tavern's din.
He slowly raised his head, revealing an ordinary, featureless face, save for a ring on his left index finger, engraved with a small dragon-sigil.
Tyrion's heart gave a sudden leap—that was the symbol of House Targaryen.
Cersei had roared countless times in court that the Targaryen remnants were still alive, and one day they would return for revenge.
Tyrion stared at the ring, suddenly recalling Tywin's words before his death: "Targaryen and Lannister are natural enemies; as long as one Targaryen lives, the Lannisters will know no peace."
"Who are you?" Tyrion tightened his grip on the small knife in his sleeve, watching him warily.
"An decoy sent by Cersei?"
The man smiled, pulling a folded parchment from his cloak and placing it before Tyrion: "I am the contact sent by Lord Illyrio; he awaits you in Meereen.
Lord Illyrio says you and he share a common enemy—Cersei Lannister, and those fools sitting on the iron throne."
Tyrion unfolded the parchment; the handwriting was neat and strong, with a few short lines: "Tywin is dead, Cersei's reign is chaotic, the Seven Kingdoms are falling apart.
Daenerys Targaryen needs a counselor, you need a patron; meet in Meereen."
The signature was a dragon-sigil, identical to the pattern on the man's ring.
"Illyrio?" Tyrion frowned, trying to recall the name—in King's Landing, Tyrion had heard spice merchants mention a "man with a dragon-sigil necklace" in the East, who had helped the Targaryen remnants free Slaver's Bay, and knew some "strange knowledge," like how to destroy city walls with "exploding jars."
"How did he know Tyrion was in Pentos?"
"Lord Illyrio has many informants in the Free Cities," the man said.
"He has been looking for you since you escaped from King's Landing.
He knows you understand internal affairs and are skilled in strategy, and Daenerys needs someone who can help her govern the city-states—after all, Slaver's Bay cannot be stabilized by dragonflame alone."
Tyrion fell silent.
These days, Tyrion had been pondering his options: Go to Dorne?
Ellaria Sand hated the Lannisters to the bone and would surely kill Tyrion.
Go to the North?
House Bolton was hunting the Stark remnants and would not accept a Lannister.
Go to the Wall?
Jon Snow was the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, and Tyrion was a "kinslayer"; the Night's Watch would not allow Tyrion to join.
It seemed Tyrion had no choice but to seek refuge with the Targaryens.
"Cersei's people are still searching for Tyrion in Pentos," Tyrion picked up his ceramic bowl, draining it in one gulp.
The sourness of the ale tightened his throat.
"How do I get to Meereen?"
"Tonight at the third watch, at the docks on the west side of the city, there's a spice ship bound for Meereen," the man said.
"I will give you a new set of clothes and identification; you will pretend to be the ship's bookkeeper.
The journey will take five days; Lord Illyrio has arranged everything, no one will check you."
Tyrion nodded, but his mind was filled with doubts—would the Targaryens truly accept a Lannister?
Would Daenerys Targaryen, the legendary woman who rode dragons, treat Tyrion like Cersei, merely using him as a tool and then discarding him?
"What are you worried about?" The man seemed to read Tyrion's thoughts.
"Lord Illyrio says you are a clever man and know when to cooperate.
Daenerys is not Cersei; she will not kill you because of your surname; she only values your abilities."
Tyrion stood up, adjusting his coarse cloth clothes—he had just changed into them yesterday, and they were still dusted with flour, left over from when Tyrion pretended to be a "baker."
"Tonight at the third watch, west city docks, right?"
The man nodded, turned, and walked towards the door, his cloak swaying in the wind like a spreading bat.
As he reached the door, he suddenly stopped and looked back at Tyrion: "Lord Illyrio says if you want to know the truth about Tywin's death, you can find him in Meereen—he knows some things you don't."
The truth about Tywin's death?
Tyrion's heart clenched—Tyrion had always believed he had killed Tywin with a crossbow, but Jaime later secretly told Tyrion that there were other footprints in the room when Tywin died.
Could Tywin's death not have been Tyrion's sole "masterpiece"?
Tyrion watched the man disappear through the doorway, his fingers tightly clutching the parchment, the rough edge digging painfully into his palm.
The tavern's din continued; the owner was still boasting to a customer about having "seen dragons," but Tyrion no longer had the mind to listen—Tyrion knew that from tonight, his life would take a new turn, for better or worse, Tyrion had to see it through.
2. The Storm on the Narrow Sea and the Shadows of the Past
When the third watch bell echoed through the streets of Pentos, Tyrion had already changed into the clothes given by the contact—a dark blue linen robe, a leather belt at his waist from which hung a small copper abacus, and an identification card reading "Spice Merchant Bookkeeper, Tyrell Payne."
These items were all ordinary, designed not to attract any attention, just like Tyrion's current identity.
The docks on the west side of the city were silent, save for the sound of waves lapping against the shore and the distant flickering torches of the Night's Watch in the darkness.
The spice ship the contact had mentioned was docked at the very edge of the pier, its hull painted black, a tattered canvas sail hanging from its mast, emblazoned with the image of a spice bag.
A sailor in a black jacket stood at the bow; seeing Tyrion approach, he nodded and whispered, "Lord Illyrio's guest?"
"Yes." Tyrion nodded, following him onto the ship.
The gangplank was narrow, creaking underfoot as if it might break at any moment.
The ship's cabin was filled with the scent of spices, mixed with the salty tang of seawater, reminding Tyrion of the spice alleys of King's Landing—a place Tyrion had once loved to visit, because there, no one ridiculed Tyrion for his height; they only smiled at him for the gold coins Tyrion paid.
"Your cabin is on the lower deck," the sailor led Tyrion to the door of a small cabin, its doorway only tall enough for one person, requiring Tyrion to bend down to enter.
"There are twelve people on board, all subordinates of the spice merchant.
Don't talk to them much; someone will bring you food every day."
Tyrion bent down and entered the cabin.
Inside, there was only a simple wooden bunk, a small wooden chest, and a small round window through which he could see the sea outside.
The sailor closed the door, his footsteps gradually fading, leaving Tyrion alone in the cabin with only the sound of waves hitting the ship's hull.
Tyrion sat on the wooden bunk, took out the parchment, and, by the moonlight streaming through the window, read the words again.
"Daenerys Targaryen needs a counselor, you need a patron"—this sentence was like a thorn, piercing Tyrion's heart.
All his life, Tyrion had been searching for a "patron": Tywin was Tyrion's father, yet he never gave Tyrion a shred of warmth; Jaime was Tyrion's brother, but could only help Tyrion in secret; Cersei was Tyrion's sister, yet she saw Tyrion as a thorn in her side.
Now, Tyrion was to seek refuge with a Targaryen he had never met, a woman rumored to command dragons; it sounded like a joke.
But Tyrion had no choice.
Cersei would not let Tyrion go, nor would the Lannisters' enemies.
Only the Targaryens, only that rising power in the East, could offer Tyrion a place to belong.
Tyrion recalled Tywin's words before his death: "Power is a game; either you win, or you die."
Now, Tyrion had no retreat; he could only gamble, gamble that Daenerys Targaryen was a monarch worth serving, gamble that Illyrio was a trustworthy ally.
For the next few days, Tyrion stayed almost entirely in his cabin, rarely speaking to others except for meals and occasional trips to the deck for air.
The sailors on board were indifferent to Tyrion, occasionally giving Tyrion strange glances, likely finding it odd that a "bookkeeper" always hid in his cabin.
But Tyrion didn't care; Tyrion only wanted to reach Meereen as soon as possible, to uncover the truth about Tywin's death, and to understand what kind of person Daenerys truly was.
On the third day after departure, a storm suddenly erupted at sea.
Gale-force winds howled across the surface, whipping up waves several meters high; the ship tossed violently in the swells, as if it might be torn apart at any moment.
When Tyrion was startled awake, the wooden chest in his cabin had toppled to the floor, its contents of clothes scattered everywhere.
Tyrion struggled to crawl out of bed, grabbing the bed frame, and through the window, he saw the sky outside was pitch black, lightning like silver snakes tearing through the night, illuminating the churning waves.
"To the deck! Help secure the canvas!" A sailor's frightened shouts came from the deck.
Tyrion hesitated for a moment, then opened the cabin door and bent down, rushing out.
The deck was in chaos; sailors struggled against the gale to secure the canvas, some soaked by waves and shivering from the cold; others accidentally slipped on the deck, hitting their heads and bleeding.
"What are you standing around for?" A bearded sailor yelled at Tyrion, his face covered in seawater.
"Come help! If the canvas blows away, we'll all die here!"
Tyrion didn't hesitate, rushing over to grab a rope and pulling it hard towards him.
The rope was thick, chafing Tyrion's palms, but Tyrion dared not let go—Tyrion knew that if the ship sank, he would never reach Meereen, never have the chance to learn the truth about Tywin's death.
The gale howled past Tyrion's ears, waves crashed against Tyrion's face, the icy seawater sharpened Tyrion's senses, and reminded Tyrion of the Battle of Blackwater Bay in King's Landing—at that time, Tyrion was still the Hand of the Lannisters, commanding the fleet against Stannis's army, but now, Tyrion was like a deserter, struggling to survive on a spice ship.
"The rope on the left broke!" someone shouted. Tyrion looked up to see a large tear in the left canvas, ripped by the gale, ropes flailing wildly in the air, threatening to lash anyone at any moment. Tyrion didn't think twice, rushing over to grab the broken rope and tying it to the mooring post with all his might. Just then, a giant wave struck, the ship lurched violently, and Tyrion lost his balance, on the verge of falling into the sea.
"Grab me!" A hand suddenly seized Tyrion's arm; it was the bearded sailor. He pulled Tyrion back with force, letting Tyrion lean against the mooring post. "You imp, if you die here, no one will bury you!"
Tyrion gasped, looking at him, and suddenly found it a little amusing—just a few days ago, he had been utterly cold to Tyrion, but now he had saved Tyrion's life. "Thank you," Tyrion murmured.
He paused, then smiled, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth: "I just didn't want to lose a helping hand. Besides, Lord Illyrio instructed me to ensure your safety."
Illyrio? So he had made arrangements long ago, even the sailors on the ship knew him. Tyrion's doubts lessened a bit—this Illyrio seemed more capable and trustworthy than Tyrion had imagined.
The storm lasted a full day and night, gradually subsiding only on the morning of the fourth day. The deck was a mess, canvases torn to shreds, several sailors injured and groaning on the deck. Tyrion leaned against the mooring post, soaked, cold, and exhausted, yet filled with the relief of having survived a disaster.
"Are you alright?" The bearded sailor walked over and handed Tyrion a piece of dry bread. "Eat something, replenish your strength."
Tyrion took the bread and bit into it; the dry, hard bread was difficult to swallow, but Tyrion still chewed it slowly. "How much longer until we reach Meereen?" Tyrion asked.
"Soon," he pointed to the distant horizon, "one more day, and we'll see Meereen's red walls."
Tyrion looked in the direction he pointed, the distant horizon was blurred, yet he seemed to see the legendary city, to see Daenerys Targaryen and Illyrio waiting for Tyrion on the city walls. Tyrion clutched the bread in his hand, a sudden anticipation rising in his heart—perhaps Meereen truly could be Tyrion's new beginning, perhaps Tyrion really could find his place there.
III. The Red Walls of Meereen and the Chess Game of the Counselor
On the afternoon of the fifth day, Tyrion finally saw Meereen's red walls. It was a massive city, its walls built of red stone, gleaming with a dark red light under the sun, like a giant ruby. A black banner fluttered from the walls, emblazoned with a three-headed dragon—the sigil of House Targaryen, and the symbol of Daenerys Targaryen.
The spice ship slowly sailed into Meereen's harbor, where many ships were anchored, merchant freighters and warrior warships alike. The docks were bustling with people, soldiers in Unsullied armor, nomads in Dothraki leather, and commoners in Slaver's Bay attire. Their faces all held an expression Tyrion had never seen before—not the numbness of King's Landing, nor the greed of Pentos, but a resolute hope.
"Lord Tyrion," a man in a black robe approached. A dragon-sigil badge was pinned to his chest, identical to the pattern on the ring of the greeter. "Lord Illyrio sent me to meet you; he is waiting for you in the council hall."
Tyrion followed him off the ship, stepping onto Meereen's dock. The stone path underfoot was clean, without the sewage and garbage of King's Landing streets, nor the stench of Pentos's flea pits. Several children were playing by the roadside, smiles on their faces, holding small wooden dragon toys, shouting words like "Mother of Dragons" and "freedom."
"Lady Daenerys freed the slaves of Meereen," the man said softly, as if reading Tyrion's thoughts. "Now, the people here call her 'Mother of Dragons,' and they call Lord Illyrio 'Master of Wisdom'—it was Lord Illyrio who helped Lady Daenerys formulate the plan to govern Meereen and solved the economic problems after the slave liberation."
Tyrion nodded, his curiosity about Illyrio growing. A person who could stabilize Slaver's Bay in a short time, a person who could earn the trust of a "Mother of Dragons" like Daenerys, was certainly not simple.
The council hall was located in the center of Meereen, a building made of white stone, with two soldiers in Unsullied armor standing guard at the entrance. Their armor was engraved with dragon-sigils, and they held long spears, their gazes fixed forward. Inside the spacious hall, a large circular table stood in the center, bearing a map of Meereen. Several people sat around it, one of whom, a man in a red robe, was presumably Illyrio.
He saw Tyrion enter, stood up, a gentle smile on his face. He was younger than Tyrion had imagined, perhaps in his twenties, with black hair and bright eyes that seemed to see through people. He wore a dragon-sigil necklace on his chest, just as in the legends, and held a roll of parchment filled with writing.
"Lord Tyrion Lannister," he walked over and extended his hand, "welcome to Meereen. I am Illyrio, Lady Daenerys's counselor."
Tyrion grasped his hand; his hand was warm, yet held a firm strength. "Lord Illyrio," Tyrion began, his voice carrying a hint of imperceptible tension, "thank you for sending someone to meet Tyrion."
"You're welcome," he smiled, pointing to a chair beside the table. "Please sit. I know you've had a long journey, so have a glass of wine and rest."
A serving girl brought a glass of deep red wine. Tyrion took the goblet and took a sip; the rich aroma of the wine spread across his tongue, reminding Tyrion of the Lannister wines—but this wine held no taste of power, only a calm warmth.
"Do you want to know the truth about Tywin's death?" Illyrio suddenly asked, his gaze falling on Tyrion with a hint of inquiry.
Tyrion's heart pounded, and the wine glass in his hand almost dropped to the floor. "You know?" Tyrion asked eagerly.
"I know some things," he nodded, pulling a roll of parchment from his robe and placing it before Tyrion. "This is information I received from my contacts in King's Landing. It states that on the day Tywin died, Cersei's personal handmaiden saw a man in black clothing enter Tywin's room, then quietly leave. The man's build was very similar to... Jaime Lannister."
Jaime? Tyrion's brother? Tyrion froze, the wine glass suspended in mid-air. Tywin was Jaime's father, how could Jaime kill him? Was it because Tywin always looked down on him, always forced him to do things he didn't want to do? Or was it because... Tyrion?
"Cersei knows about this," Illyrio continued, "but she didn't publicize it. Instead, she pushed all the blame onto you because she wanted to use your 'kinslayer' reputation to completely eliminate the 'disgrace' of House Lannister, and she also wanted Jaime to become her puppet."
Tyrion put down the wine glass, his fingers tightly clutching the parchment, knuckles white from the effort. So, Tyrion had always been used as a pawn by Cersei, and as a cover by Jaime. Tywin's death was not Tyrion's sole "sin," but a joint conspiracy of Cersei and Jaime. Tyrion suddenly found it laughable; he had spent his entire life fighting the Lannisters, yet he had never won, instead becoming a casualty of their power games.
"I understand how you feel now," Illyrio's voice was gentle, yet carried a firm strength. "But you cannot live forever in the shadows of the past. Cersei has gone mad; she has thrown King's Landing into chaos and utterly ruined the reputation of House Lannister. Now, Lady Daenerys needs you, she needs your wisdom to help her govern Meereen, to help her return to Westeros and overthrow Cersei's rule."
Tyrion looked up at Illyrio; his gaze was sincere, without a hint of falsehood. "Lady Daenerys… is she truly willing to accept Tyrion?" Tyrion asked, his voice tinged with uncertainty.
"Of course she is," Illyrio smiled. "Lady Daenerys is not Cersei; she will not deny your abilities because of your surname. She knows you are a talented person, she knows you can help her solve Meereen's governance problems—after all, though Meereen has freed its slaves, its economy is still fragile and needs someone skilled in internal affairs and finance to assist her."
Just then, the hall door suddenly opened, and a woman in a white robe entered. Her hair was golden, dazzling like sunlight, and her eyes were purple, as deep as the waters of the Narrow Sea. A small black dragon perched on her shoulder, its golden eyes curiously watching Tyrion.
It was Daenerys Targaryen.
She walked to Tyrion, her gaze falling upon him without a hint of disdain or hostility, only a calm scrutiny. "Tyrion Lannister," she began, her voice soft, yet carrying an innate leadership quality, "I hear you are skilled in governing cities and the game of power."
Tyrion stood up and bowed slightly; though he was much shorter than her, Tyrion felt no inferiority—in this moment, Tyrion was not an "imp," not a "kinslayer," but a counselor awaiting opportunity. "Your Majesty," Tyrion said, his voice steady, "Tyrion understands not only the governance of cities and the game of power, Tyrion also understands Cersei's weaknesses, the distribution of power in the Seven Kingdoms, and how to overthrow the Lannister rule."
Daenerys smiled, extending her hand to gently stroke the small dragon on her shoulder: "I need you to help me govern Meereen and solve its economic problems; I need you to help me devise a plan to return to Westeros and unite those forces opposed to Cersei; I need you to help me win this war and restore order to the Seven Kingdoms. Will you help me?"
Tyrion looked into her eyes, those purple eyes filled with determination and hope, like a lighthouse in the darkness. Tyrion thought of Cersei's madness, Tywin's coldness, Jaime's helplessness, and his own years of flight and struggle. Tyrion knew this was his only chance, his only way out.
"Tyrion is willing, Your Majesty," Tyrion said solemnly, "Tyrion Lannister is willing to serve you until you sit upon the iron throne, until peace is restored to the Seven Kingdoms."
Daenerys nodded, a smile gracing her face. Illyrio also smiled; he walked to Tyrion and clapped him on the shoulder: "From today, you are Meereen's Minister of Internal Affairs, responsible for managing the city's economy, taxes, and public welfare. I will handle strategy and military matters. We will work together to help Lady Daenerys achieve her goals."
Tyrion looked at the two people before him, at the small dragon on Daenerys's shoulder, at the map in the council hall, and suddenly felt filled with strength. Tyrion knew the road ahead would not be easy; Cersei's army, the threat of the Golden Company, the complex forces of the Seven Kingdoms, and the impending Others would all be obstacles. But Tyrion was no longer afraid, for Tyrion had finally found a monarch worth serving, a trustworthy ally, and his own place.
That night, Tyrion stayed in a room next to the council hall. The room was spacious, with a comfortable bed, a bookshelf filled with books, and a desk where Meereen's economic reports and tax records lay. Tyrion sat at the desk, looking at the dense data, and suddenly felt a sense of peace—this was what Tyrion truly wanted to do, not to scheme in the court of King's Landing, not to live in fear on the run, but to use his wisdom to help a monarch govern a city and help a group of people achieve freedom and peace.
Tyrion picked up a quill and began to diligently analyze Meereen's economic situation. After the liberation of slaves, many plantations were left unmanaged, leading to a decrease in food production; merchants, fearing policy changes, were hesitant to conduct business in Meereen; commoners lacked skills and couldn't find work… These were all problems that needed solving. Tyrion recalled how, in King's Landing, he had improved the economy by reforming taxes, supporting merchants, and establishing schools. Perhaps these methods could also be applied in Meereen.
The moonlight from outside the window streamed into the room, falling on the desk, illuminating the data and reports. Tyrion looked up at the night sky outside the window; there were a few bright stars in the sky, like pairs of eyes, watching this red city, watching Tyrion, the new counselor. Tyrion knew that from tonight, his life would turn a new page, and Meereen, this city liberated by dragonflame, would become Tyrion's new battlefield, and also Tyrion's new home.
Tyrion gripped the quill in his hand and wrote the first line on the paper: "Meereen Economic Reform Plan: One, support plantation owners, encourage former slaves to remain employed, and provide reasonable compensation; Two, reduce merchant taxes to attract merchants from the Free Cities to trade; Three, establish skills schools to teach commoners trades such as blacksmithing and weaving…"