Shadow and Show
First Day of the Fifth Month 294 AC
It was, Tyrion thought, quite surreal to be guiding his escort through these halls, when only hours ago he was contemplating tawdry poetry over a glass of Arbor Gold and trying to put off a more 'productive' task in working his magicks toward the 'benefit of House and Lord' by imagining how removing a woman's underthings in ever more bizarre manner ultimately benefited his father. The very thought of it was like a cat sharpening its claws upon glass, but he supposed there was no House and hardly a Lord to be benefiting now, was there? It wiped his wry smile away.
His eyes flitted toward the Shadow on his left, if only so he didn't have to focus on the Archon of Volantis, who song and tale was only somewhat less imaginative owed due to the masses' ignorance of the ordering of the Dragon's realm than anything else. No one overlooked the second most terrifying man in Essos and now Westeros, however, in either song or tale.
Which was quite ironic, really, considering the dearth of information on the man before he left Braavos for the Stepstones not long after the Targaryens made a pirate's nest of the place. Or perhaps made the pirate's nest a Dragon's nest?
Perhaps, he thought, not able to help his sense of humor acting up in spite of the circumstances,
there's not that much of a difference.
Regardless, it was hard to keep up a sense of humor when the world knew less about the man who ran the Dragon's Inquisition than they did about King Viserys, or he supposed, apparently, Emperor Viserys, themselves. Only natural, the Imp supposed, the Targaryens' origins were well documented, but when one spoke of Garin Drekelis and compared their background with the man, if that indeed he be, and Tyrion found that unlikely, they almost seemed...
boring, in comparison.
That was likely the point.
"No, no, the smile rather suited you more," the Shadow spoke up, surprising the Imp. "If it helps, it's not as though Viserys called you before him to dance a jig and sing a dirge. I mean, at this hour? Really?" He smiled mysteriously, "Though being as he has no talent there himself, it's hardly like he could judge an overly
bad attempt."
In the brief instant they had made eye contact, Tyrion accidentally took in the Shadow's full appearance, having been content to avoid staring for too long beforehand. Like gold left behind in some dusty tomb or buried at the bottom of some vast forgotten hoard, the Braavosi's hair was artfully coifed, and his dark clothes understated for all the shadows made his figure indeterminate beyond his sharp featured face.
His eyes, however, were the most striking, like two portals into a fathomless chasm, a view into another realm resting just behind the curtain, and eyes were indeed a mirror into the soul, verily was the Shadow a reflection of that mirror world. There was,
he found, some life animating that darkness, it was terrifying
, like a predator who was in every moment stood beside the former Lannister lordling, restraining
themselves from feeding an insatiable hunger, held back with a will of adamantine so forged.
"Must you, Lord Drekelis." The saturnine temperament of the other man was nearly a fixture by this point of their if only brief company, letting out an almost long-suffering sigh.
The former spoke the Dragon's name with familiarity, wouldn't ordinarily do so in an overly formal or public setting. That he points it out, not, it seemed, a further attempt to put him at ease, or at least not an apparent one, given the context. That the Volantene sorcerer is the one who does so merely highlights this fact more so, leaving ambiguity as to whether or not Tyrion would even be alive by dawn to recall that fact to anyone else.
He was robed in crimson with golden accents, bearing a kingdom's worth of arcane instruments. A vestigial wing twitched in annoyance, that one gesture not feigned, perhaps the only unconscious action the foreign man could exhibit anymore.
Lovely.
"It hardly serves him to be sweating any more buckets than he already is, given how gods bedamned long a walk it is to anywhere in these halls of barbaric splendor," the Braavosi pointed out, quite reasonably. "Really, I can already tell he doesn't believe that tripe about baby soup and demonic unguents, yet people forget the more prosaic fears, like fire, sharp implements, long falls off steep cliffs."
"And spiders in dark corners," Tyrion quipped, despite himself, restraining a laugh at the not-quite man's genial manner.
"Nooo," the Shadow drawled slowly, "We don't do those anymore."
"No, I suppose not," Tyrion said, after barking out a sharp and bitter laugh, "Having just rid yourself of one, no need to invite another in, I suppose."
He was, Tyrion found, more personable than he expected. The Archon of Volantis was also a witty man, easily capable of a repertoire of dry humor and of matching the predator in the shape of a man word for word. As the three wound their way down familiar corridors, a conflicted part of Tyrion realized this was all that they were capable of, when it came to setting a weary prisoner's heart at ease, and almost unwillingly the Imp found himself appreciative of the lame attempt.
"We're here," the Shadow said softly, though Tyrion already knew it to be so.
The heavy door swung open, a task the giant warrior guarding its entrance found effortless. "Clegane?" Tyrion spoke in quiet surprise. "Is that you in there?"
"In you go, Imp," grunted the Hound.
"You look well," Tyrion murmured as he stepped past. "Did you do something with your hair?"
***
This room... Tyrion has found himself stewing in silence here more than once. Though his attention was taken away from the stately solar for its more interesting occupants, restraining his fear with every step but unable to completely escape an unbidden thread of excitement.
Ever since he was a boy, he had wanted to see dragons in the flesh. He had cried when his uncle Gerion had told him that they were all dead, though in his defense he was merely a boy of seven at the time and he forgot the fancy quickly enough when that Nameday had come at last and his uncle had gifted him a book about the beasts.
He quickly tore himself away from that painful thought, lest he lose himself to it, unwilling or unable to gaze up at the person with the most powerful presence in the room just yet. His eyes landed on the Princess in the corner, stewing over a shelf of books Tyrion has rarely gotten to sort through himself, if only when father wanted a second set of eyes with a head for sums and recalling obscure subjects at hand, one who was hardly missed elsewhere.
She looked like a slightly tall girl of eleven years or so, despite being a bit younger than that, her features almost puckish and feylike, and holding an ethereal presence. She saw right through Tyrion and dismissed him soon enough, but other than the calculating gleam in her eye, her expression was like stone.
The Sage, however... ah, what, if under other circumstance, Tyrion wouldn't give to have a long conversation with them over a cup of wine and a fine book or three, picking their head over all manner of forgotten lore and forbidden knowledge. What secrets must be swirling amidst the flickering arcane sparks that danced in her knowing gaze?
Not for any other reason, certainly.
Ser Lonmouth stood to the Imp's immediate right, guarding the door, perhaps needlessly, what with Clegane on the other side, but he gave away no more than the Princess did. His presence was muted, almost fading into the background with comical ease, for all the fact that this was apparently the knight who made it a habit of fighting off both gods and monsters for the man across from him.
They grasped upon a blade famous across half the world in these days, and only a flicker of flame shone white upon its sharp edge, so dark his sword that it almost seemed part of the world was sliced out. Apparently, he did not trust this place to be completely safe, which considering the swift resolution of their assault was perhaps an unwarranted fear. Or maybe more warranted, given the manner of preparations held in store within the Rock.
Amusingly, sitting up on the desk was a boy of age with the Princess or perhaps somewhat older, bearing Valyrian features and short silvered hair and simple but well-made clothes. The desk, which the Dragon Emperor oddly enough had not opted to sit behind, creaked softly as their legs dangled over the edge, the gold-horned lad treating the objects sitting there with a casual sort of irreverence that the Imp never would have dared. Various personal effects were often deposited back down again despite the almost instinctive filching motions with which they had been grabbed to in the first place.
Standing a few feet away from where his father had likely say not long ago, Viserys Targaryen's features were iron-hard when he had entered, but had smoothed over in an instant into perfect, almost unnaturally poised neutrality. That he did not hide the curious gleam in his eye could only be deliberate, as Tyrion made his greetings, the ruler of two continents now.
Garbed in elaborate crimson robes threaded with with black silk, or else hiding a harness secured with dark purple leather. A belt made with the hide of a some strange beast cinched to his waist, bearing another famous blade with a ruby set in its guard and a pommel in the shape of flames at his hip. Each finger bore a ring of power, and the Crown of Aegon the Conqueror sat upon his brow.
Twisting about him was a mantle of almost-living molten gold, a fountain of coins casting an ominous glow about the room, almost seeming to stoke an indeterminate feeling of an inferno building up within its bearer, given the intensity of his gaze, though the anger was not aimed toward him, the Imp thought, so much as the situation itself. He had just heard much ill news, though Tyrion couldn't help but think such rapid conquest should have served as a balm against it.
Well, it would be a bitter hearing for anyone, if thousands died because of spite, to be sure. So long as one cared about such things.
It was, Tyrion realized, unable to stop his hands from shaking as he spoke the words that might take or save his life, different than he expected, when he dreamed of meeting a dragon.
What was fact and what was fiction? A familiar question, poised in not the manner he expected.
Alas, he would not be finding out so soon as that.
OOC: Another great character piece from @Crake to make up for the interlude that I failed to write last night. 
