Meereen's nobles lived in pyramids that rose like rivets hammered into the flesh of Slaver's Bay. From the tops of those stone towers, the Unsullied stood like carved statues, spears in hand, unmoved by wind or rain. They were lean, hard men who moved like coiled wire, and no one who saw them doubted they could kill.
Tyrion's party had reached Slaver's Bay two months earlier after a brutal march. Getting face time with the Dragon Queen had proved almost impossible. In Tyrion's judgment, Griff was the real backbone of their group—noble posture, soldier's eyes, the kind of man who made hard decisions without blinking. Griff had already spent half their coin just to buy a place in line.
Even with the bribe, they still had to wait.
Today the Queen was buried in work. Freed slaves and their old masters were locked in endless fights over back wages. When Daenerys freed the slaves she had ordered the masters to pay them for every day they had worked. Workshop owners who had lived off cheap slave labor suddenly faced real costs they could not afford. The freedmen demanded the looms, the forges, even the oxen as collateral. The masters dragged their feet, lied, and hid assets. Their hatred for the Queen grew hotter every day. The line to see her stretched halfway down the pyramid.
"Why the fuck are we still standing here?" Young Griff snapped at the young bloodrider with the bronze skin. "We paid. We should be inside by now."
The bloodrider gave him a flat look. "When did I take your coin?"
Young Griff stepped forward, fists clenched. The movement drew the attention of the nearest Unsullied. Griff moved fast, putting himself between his son and the spearmen.
"My apologies," he said quickly. "My boy spoke out of turn. No offense meant." He slid a well-made dagger into the bloodrider's hand.
The bloodrider's anger cooled. He weighed the blade, then smiled. "You think this is slow? Try dealing with every freed slave and every bitter master in the city. Even the Queen's dragons are causing trouble now."
Tyrion's ears pricked up at the word dragons. Owning one had been a boyhood dream. Seeing one in the flesh was half the reason he had crossed half the world.
The bloodrider kept talking. Daenerys's dragons were growing fast—big enough to fly, big enough to burn, big enough to tear the head off a bull. They were becoming a problem for the locals.
While he spoke, a shepherd walked past carrying a sack in one hand and a money bag in the other. He smelled strongly of sheep and kept his eyes on the ground. The bloodrider jerked his chin at the man. "That old bastard's daughter got burned by one of the dragons. He's here to beg for coin."
Tyrion was short enough to get a clear look at the shepherd's face. He saw grief, yes, but also guilt. Young Griff watched the man with open pity. Griff noticed and felt a quiet flicker of pride; he rested a hand on his son's shoulder and pulled him closer. Septa Lemore murmured a soft prayer for the dead girl.
The shepherd was just another small tragedy. They kept waiting.
Slaver's Bay heat baked them until the sun sank low. Sweat soaked their clothes. Finally they stood only three people away from the palace doors. Hope stirred in the group.
Then the bloodrider came jogging back. "The Queen needs rest. Come back tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Young Griff's voice cracked with rage.
They had baked in the sun all day with nothing to eat or drink. Now they were being sent away like beggars.
"Stop shouting," the bloodrider said. "The Queen hasn't eaten either. You think sitting on that throne is comfortable?"
Griff started apologizing again, trying to keep the peace. Just when it looked like they had lost their chance, Griff spotted a familiar white-haired figure leading a group of young squires.
"Barristan!"
He turned to the bloodrider. "Ser, may I speak with that old knight for a moment?"
The bloodrider shrugged. "Go. He's heading to rest anyway."
Griff decided to send Septa Lemore and Young Griff back to their rooms while he spoke with Barristan alone. Young Griff wanted to go too—he had grown up hearing stories about the legendary Kingsguard—but Griff refused. He did not want to show their full hand yet. With the septa's gentle urging, Young Griff finally agreed to wait outside.
They were turning to leave when Tyrion stepped in front of the bloodrider and blocked his path.
"Take me to the Queen," he said. "If you don't, her dragons are going to die."
"Tyrion!" Griff hissed, but it was too late.
The bloodrider grabbed Tyrion by the collar and lifted him off his feet. Unsullied spears swung toward them.
"You think I won't throw you off this fucking pyramid, dwarf?"
"I may be small," Tyrion said calmly, "but I've got meat on my bones. Feed me to the Queen's dragons instead. That way at least someone gets a meal."
The bloodrider stared at him. He had never met a dwarf this fearless.
"I know she's tired," Tyrion continued, "but if something happens to her dragons it won't matter how tired she is. You don't want the masters to win, do you?"
"The masters are nothing to the Dragon Queen."
"A Queen without dragons is just another woman on a chair," Tyrion said.
The bloodrider's eyes narrowed. He thought for a long moment, then set Tyrion down.
"Wait here. If you're lying, I'll pour molten iron over all your heads."
Tyrion glanced back at the others and gave them a quick wink before following the bloodrider toward the palace. Griff watched him go, then turned to find Barristan. Young Griff stayed with the septa, jaw tight, pride stinging.
The septa spoke softly. "You're not being left behind, Young Griff. They're protecting you the only way they know how. Be patient."
Young Griff nodded once, forcing the anger down. He would wait. For now.