A Feast For Dragons

Tyrion

Tyrion was not a fan of the ocean. He was not a fan of ships and sails and the smell of the salt sea and vomit. He had to endure months of it when he was stuck in a crate, escaping from King's Landing with Varys. Back then, all he could do was sit there in the darkness of the crate and think. He would think of Shae--the woman of his dreams, the woman he had loved. He would think about her smile, the way her body would look as she arched under him. He would think about how her nipples would harden with the touch of his fingers or the flick of his tongue. He remembered the way his name would roll off her tongue, the way she would tremble with every thrust of his hips or every lick of his tongue to her core.

But most of all, he remembered the way she had betrayed him. He remembered the way that he had tried to protect her, but all she had wanted was the wealth and the objects he had to give her. All she had cared for was what he could provide for her. He had been a means to an end; she had been a whore, and she had played him until the end, and when she could no longer take what she wanted from him, she turned to his father. When Tywin Lannister gave her what she desired, she was happily willing to speak against Tyrion--the man she had claimed to love. The man who had fallen helplessly in love with her.

He had been a fool once again to fall for a whore. He should have learned his lesson the first time, but it seemed that he had been a glutton for punishment.

Pain and sorrow filled his heart, but guilt was not one of the emotions that he felt when he thought of killing her. He felt rage; he felt blinding anger and heart wrenching pain, but he never felt guilt. Killing her was a mercy--it was a way to rid his heart of the agony that had festered there. Killing his father had been a relief; a way to escape the pain that his life had been because of him. He had been worse than a disappointment, and it was his death his father had wished for him. It was that, that had been the last straw. He had known that he would never have his father's love, nor his approval, but to know that his father was willing to accuse him of a crime just to have a reason to have him killed--it was more than he thought the man possible.

The sea brought back thoughts he hadn't wanted to think of since reaching Essos. The sea brought back time he hadn't wished to have. There was nothing he could do, though, but sit and wait and think. The sea air brushed his golden curls back, and the motion made him wish for ale so he could drink himself until uncontioustess. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and slipped away into the bottom of his cup, he'll open his eyes in Dorne and would have missed the whole trip.

Missandei spent all her time in her cabin; Daario stayed above deck, cleaning and mending his blades; Jorah stayed by the captain, watching the ocean pass them. Days turned to weeks, and months in the ocean turned tedious when storms would blow and their sails broke. They had to stop twice at two different harbours to repair the sails and to get more men. It was nearly two months later that they finally reached the Dorne harbour.

"Ah. Finally to be on solid land." Tyrion let out a sigh and tugged on the hood of his cloak over his head. Dorne was hot, but it wasn't such a drastic difference from Meereen. It was a mix of heat and humidity, thanks to the ocean breeze. He was a Lion in a country that hated Lions. He had walked into the snake pit and was hoping not to get bit.

"Okay, so we're in Westeros. How are we going to find her?" Jorah asked as he gripped the hilt of his blade. The last time he had been in Westeros, he had lost everything and had been driven out into exile. A part of him felt like he didn't belong here at all, but this was where his queen was, and he would do anything to find her.

"We do it the old fashion way. We ask around." Tyrion said as he took Missandei's hand. "We shall be at the tavern. The Gods know I need a little ale in my belly."