Chapter 5

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 rape 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 cedar 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 fabrics 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 contrived to get it fastened. Moths had been at them too. At least they do not stink of vomit.

Tyrion began his explorations with the kitchen, where two fat women and a potboy watched

him warily as he helped himself to cheese, bread, and figs. "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

shrug 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 smother 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 niggardly 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 decanted 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 Arbor gold, even wines from the fabled 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 languorous 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 ornamental iron spikes along the top looked strangely naked without heads to adornthem. Tyrion pictured how his sister's head might look up there, with tar in her golden hair and flies

buzzing in and out of her mouth.

Yes, and Jaime must have the spike beside her, he decided. 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 impale 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 kennels, and a garden gate hidden behind a tangle of pale ivy. 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 spiked 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 pointed 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 freckles.

"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 wash-erwoman went back to wringing out

tunics 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?" Chuckling, he crossed his stunted legs

and took a drink. "I am loath to play whatever part the cheesemonger has in mind for me, yet how can I

refuse him? The gates are guarded. Perhaps you might smuggle me out under your skirts? I'd be so

grateful; why, I'll even wed 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 mischief 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 freckly

wives to warm your bed at night, only cold winds, salted cod, 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 atone 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 afterward 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 propped 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 riddle, m'lord? I'm no good at riddles. 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 ointment into his calves to ease the aches, and dressed him once again in boy's

clothing, a musty pair of burgundy breeches and a blue velvet 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 liking. "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 tightened. She despises me, he realized, but no more than I despise myself. That

he had fucked many a woman who loathed the very sight of him, Tyrion Lannister had no doubt, but the

others had at least the grace to feign affection. A little honest loathing might be refreshing, like a tart

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 fumble at your clothing. Keep your mouth shut and your thighs 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 beads 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, ruby, amethyst, sapphire,

emerald, jet and jade, a black diamond, and a green pearl. I could live for years on his rings, Tyrion

mused, though I'd need a cleaver 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 mammoth's lair, 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 broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails

in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig. The sight

of it all made Tyrion feel queasy, 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.