Tyrion Lannister sat on his window ledge, staring at the Red Keep’s vast stables. The sun had long since set, and the only light came from the torches that lined the walls of the courtyard below. He remembered the last time he had been there, helping Viserys choose a mount. The boy had been so excited, so full of dreams. Daenerys Targaryen, the steel and dragon, he thought sourly, and took a long pull from his cup of sourwine. And I was there to see her birth. It was three years now since they had left Pentos. Three years since Viserys had died, and the girl and her dragons had sailed for Westeros. And in all that time, Tyrion had not seen another dragon egg.

The sellswords he had hired were even now loading his few possessions onto a ship, the Wet Bitch, which would take him to Braavos. It was a slow trader, but her master owed him money, and had promised to let him have the vessel for the passage. He had told everyone that he was going to explore a certain tunnel, but the truth was that he wanted to see the dragons for himself. He remembered Viserys telling him how they would char any man to ashes at a hundred paces. He wondered whether that was true.

It would be good to see Braavos again. It had been eight years since he had last walked the Titan’s Spire, and dined at the House of the Black Ears, and strolled through the gardens of the Palazzo Castigazza, the ca’ of the powerful magister who had made such a nuisance of himself at Lys. And there were other reasons as well. He had been counting over and over again, and he could not see how he was going to pay his sellswords unless he sold the dragon’s egg.

He had thought of offering it to the Braavosi bankers, but he did not think they would be interested. For one thing, the gold that the Braavosi handled came primarily from mines in the Disputed Lands, and there was none of the gold of Westeros left. The egg was no bigger than a human head. It was a thing of beauty, no doubt, but Tyrion was no more certain than Viserys had been that it would hatch. He might have to sell it for half of what he had been offered in Lys. Or less.

He wondered how many Braavosi even knew that dragons still existed. He had asked Illyrio about that, the last time they had met. “Dragons?” the fat man had said, incredulous. “I tell you the Braavosi are fools. They are the most cautious men in the world. The most patient. The most prudent. They are so prudent they are falling out of fashion. And yet … they will not even go so far as to lend me the ships to bring your cute little sister to her rightful throne? Are they mad, these Braavosi? What is the good of money if you cannot spend it?

“I have told them and told them that these dragons of yours will be worth a fortune, but do they listen? No. The magisters have never seen a dragon, they will not believe that such creatures still live. Dragons? they say to me. What is your proof? Where are these dragons? Why have you not brought one to Braavos so that we may all see it with our own eyes? So we may touch it? Smell it? Taste it? Ha! Do they think that I am made of money? No, these Braavosi, they remember the Doom. Dragons roasted whole cities, they say. It is all they ever talk about, this Doom. The day the dragons returned to Braavos three thousand years ago. How the city was consumed in fire and flame. A million dead. A million. Do you know what that number means, Tyrion? It means that more men, women, and children died in this Braavos of mine than have perished in all the wars in the Seven Kingdoms since the Conquest. A million, they tell me. A million.

“And you tell me that dragons still exist, and they will not believe you. So be it. Let them starve. Illyrio shrugged. I have more important friends. But you … you are another matter. My little friend Tyrion. Why must you be so poor? Why must you be so … so …” The fat man shook his head. “So short?” “I am not short. In the east I am average. In the east I am even tall. There are men in Qarth who are shorter than I am.” “In Westeros you are a dwarf,” Illyrio said.

That was so. He could not argue with that. He could hardly even look at himself without seeing how he was the butt of a thousand japes. The Imp. Halfman. All those years of trying to ignore the jeers of his brother’s friends, of forcing himself to look them in the eye as if he did not hear the mockery in their voices. All the years of trying to make Jaime see that it did not matter, that he was still his brother, that their bond was stronger than the opinions of other men. And now, when Jaime was gone and all his other friends were dead, it still mattered.

Why? he wondered. Why should it still matter, after all these years? I am half a man, Jaime said, and he was right. Why should it matter what other men thought, when you know the truth? He had been drunk that night as well, Tyrion remembered, and that made all the difference. He could not think of Jaime without remembering how it felt to hold him, to feel his chest heaving as his brother struggled for breath. To be the strong one for once, the tall one, the one with the power of life and death. The memory made him hard. He remembered how Jaime’s cock had felt inside him, how it filled him up, how it stretched him, how it made him feel so good.

It would not do to spill his seed in his cup, so Tyrion put the wine aside and took out his cock, holding it in his hand and thinking of Jaime. His brother was long and hard, but not as big around as Pycelle or Littlefinger. Not as thick as Bronn, the black brother without a wall. The thought of the sellsword brought Morro to mind, and after that Doreah. When he came he thought of the girl he would find in Braavos, the girl who would help him sell the dragon’s egg and buy a ship and set sail for the sunset sea.

There was no wind that night, but the next morning Tyrion could taste it on his tongue as he broke his fast on cheese and bread and figs. The harbor was rough, though, and as he made his way down to the docks he spilled half his breakfast down his Doublemint tunic. The crew of the Wet Bitch were waiting for him by the time he arrived, to load his chests and cages onto the ship. They worked fast, in silence. They had done this before.

One of the sellswords offered to carry his dragon’s egg down to the hold. “No one touches the egg but me,” Tyrion said. The man laughed. “If you say so, little lord.” They loaded his other chests first, the ones that contained his clothing and his books and his maps and his treasures. Tyrion watched them closely as they lifted them down the plank and into the hold. His books were precious to him, and so were his maps. His treasures too. “Be careful with the dragon,” he warned them.

The sellswords laughed again. “We’ll be careful with the gold as well, little lord.” “There is no gold.” That gave them pause. One of them, a thick-bearded Illyrian with a broken nose and a scar above his left eyebrow, said, “No gold? No silver? No copper? No iron?” “No,” said Tyrion. “All I have is this.” He gestured. The man looked at the egg doubtfully. “Is it made of gold?”

“It has gold on it,” Tyrion admitted. “That is not the same.” The sellswords grinned at one another. The one with the scar said, “All I know is, we load the gold first and the dragon last.” “Just so.” Tyrion turned and climbed the plank back onto dry land. If they broke the egg, they had his leave to kill the crew and bring the next ship back for him. He had a good feeling about this. He had a very good feeling. That changed quickly. It was a pleasant enough morning as he made his way back to his rooms to say his farewells, but by the time he reached the ship again the sky had turned a deep and sullen purple. The wind was blowing hard.

Tyrion felt a gust of wind as he went out the gate. It tugged at his doublet and made his hair stir. It blew a strand into his eyes. He glanced up at the clouds. That was when the rain began to fall, hard, the fat raindrops pounding against the dry ground. He was under the gatehouse portcullis, but the man beside him was not, and Tyrion could hear the rain hitting him and see the water running off the brim of his hat. The wind was growing stronger by the instant.

The portcullis came crashing down. “Get under cover!” the gate guard shouted. “Get under cover, or I’ll chain you up!” The rain was falling so hard that it was hard to see more than a few feet, but Tyrion could hear men shouting all around him, the rain hammering against their hats and cloaks, the wind howling. He thought he could hear the thunder too, but the next time he looked the sky was black, and he realized that it had been the sound of the gatehouse windows shattering. The wind was a wolf, ripping at his clothes as he ran for the ship, tearing at his hair, his eyes. It was so strong that he could barely stay on his feet.

A woman was ahead of him on the plank, in a sodden green cloak. She stumbled and fell, and the wind snatched at her hood and pulled it off her head. A chest bumped into Tyrion’s back and almost knocked him off into the sea. He caught the edge of the plank and held on. The Wet Bitch was rocking wildly, banging against her moorings. One of the ropes snapped, and the wind sent it swirling around Tyrion’s neck. He heard someone shout that the gangplank had torn loose, but it was hard to be certain of anything through the roaring of the rain and wind.

It seemed to go on forever. When it finally began to let up a little, Tyrion struggled to his knees and saw the woman in the green cloak still clinging to the end of the plank, her feet in the water, her hands burned raw from trying to climb up into the ship. The crew were leaning over the side, shouting at her to let go, to swim or else they’d drag her under, but she could not let go, no more than Tyrion could. A big Illyrian with a red beard grabbed her ankle and tried to yank her foot, but she had a good grip on the wet wood. He wrapped his other hand around her calf. She shrieked and clung all the harder, kicking at him.

The big man cursed and tried to pry her fingers off one at a time, but she had fingernails as well, and they were in his face. Suddenly a knife appeared in his hand. He slashed at her wrist and missed, and then again and opened her palm to the bone. The woman in the green cloak screamed, and let go, and the Illyrian yanked her foot hard and she went under the water. For half a heartbeat she was gone, then she surfaced and started to swim. The big man jumped over the side and grabbed her ankle again. She beat at his hands with her fists as he pulled her back to the plank. This time he kicked her away, and when she tried to grab the wood he stabbed her in the belly.

She rolled away, gasping, blood pouring out of her. The red-beard was cursing her to die, shouting that she was pulling him under, and when she struggled to her knees he slashed at her face. Green cloak floating in the water, she went backward, away from the ship, the rain hiding her until it was too late. The Illyrian shouted once, loud, then his head disappeared beneath the waves. By the time the crew dragged him up, they could see the body floating beneath the plank, face down in the water with the rain lashing down on her. Blood was drifting out in thin red ribbons.

Tyrion Lannister had seen a battle or two in his time, but this was something different and worse. He had never imagined that such fury could be found in rain and wind. “Gods,” he said. “Where are the gods?” “Under their godswood trees,” someone said, a voice that he did not know. The voice was shouting at him, but Tyrion could not hear the words through the thunder. The thunder had a terrible sound to it, deep and hollow and menacing. A sudden gust of wind blew Tyrion’s hat away, and he found himself wondering if the gods were as helpless as men in the face of such power.

He looked around for the woman in the green cloak, but the crew were pushing him up the plank now, shoving him roughly, and he could not see what was happening in the water. The body must have been dragged away. The Wet Bitch was rocking wildly in the wind, but there was no one left beneath the plank. It was only when Tyrion was halfway up the plank that he noticed the captain was missing. He called out to the crew. “Where’s Morrek?

There was no answer. They were all looking away from him, out to sea. It was only then that he heard it: the creak of wood, the groan of sails, the cries of men in sudden panic. When he looked that way, he saw another ship, a three-banked war galley, come sweeping in toward them under full sail. The wind snapped at her striped black-and-white sails, and the oars slid in and out of the water so fast they were only a blur.

There was no time to think. The crew were pushing him up the plank, into the ship. A big Illyrian caught his arm and pulled him to safety just as the war galley slammed into the Wet Bitch. He heard wood splintering and men screaming as the ships came crashing together. The Wet Bitch was splintering and bending where they had come together, and the iron bands that held them fast were straining and groaning. One of them snapped, and suddenly the two ships were drifting apart.

The war galley was turning, spinning around the back of the Wet Bitch, the wind howling across her banks of oars. Men were leaping across the narrow space between the ships. He saw one land on the deck of the Wet Bitch and draw a short sword. The crew rushed him, shouting curses. Tyrion heard the steel sing as one of them slashed at the attacker, and a second later the Wet Bitch rocked as the dead man slid off her deck into the sea.

A wave crashed over the side of the ship and drenched Tyrion from head to heel. He went to one knee, and almost fell. The wind was still blowing, and the ships were still drifting apart. He could see the captain of the war galley standing in the stern, a man in a black-and-white cloak with a feather in his hat. His oarsmen were pulling him away.

“I’m here!” Tyrion shouted. “I’m here!” If the captain saw him, he gave no sign. Instead he turned his back, walked away, and disappeared below deck. The oarsmen bent to their strokes, and the war galley moved off, leaving the Wet Bitch and the dead and dying behind her. Waves were crashing over the side, and the ship was rocking wildly. Men were hanging onto the rigging, or off the sides, or over the gunwale into the water. Two of the sellswords were struggling to rescue the captain, but it was no use. The man had taken an arrow in the back, and he was dead when they pulled him out of the hold.

The storm seemed to be abating a little. Tyrion clung to the rail and made his way aft, past the captain’s cabin and the crew’s quarters. The cabin boy’s body was floating in a foot of water on the floor, face down in a lake of blood. The cabin itself was a shambles, the charts torn off the walls, the furniture smashed and overturned. The boy had taken an arrow in the back, just beneath the shoulder blade. It must have gone right through his chest. One of his hands was still clutching the shaft.

Tyrion went out onto the deck again. The war galley was no longer in sight, but he could see the body of the woman in the green cloak bumping along beneath the plank. Waves were splashing over the side, and the sun was coming out. The wind was blowing the sea into whitecaps. The sky was a pale blue, and not a cloud was to be seen. The sun was shining. It was warm. There was not a man on deck who was not bruised or bleeding, some far worse than others. A broken-nosed Illyrian was sitting on the rail, vomiting into the sea. An archer was trying to climb down into the hold to see if the sellswords who had gone down to rescue the captain were alive.

Tyrion found Bronn huddled at the base of the forecastle with a dozen other men. He looked up and said, “You’re alive, you little fuck.” “As you see.” The sellsword had a long cut across one cheek and blood in his beard, but otherwise he looked pretty much as usual. “Are we sinking?” Tyrion asked him. “Not yet. Maybe.” Bronn pulled a wineskin out from under him. “A little wine?

It was all the answer he needed. Tyrion crawled up onto the forecastle. The deck was slick and slanting and full of water, but he found a spot that was fairly dry and relatively level. He sat with his back against a gunnel and pulled the cork out of the wineskin. “Is the dragon intact?” he called down to Bronn. The sellsword shrugged. “As far as I know.” “Tell the crew to get it out of the hold, before the ship goes down,” Tyrion said. “If it goes down. If the ship goes down, that is. If. Tell them that’s double gold if they get the dragon out of the hold.”

“Fuck the dragon!” Bronn said. “Double gold if they get the captain alive.” Tyrion took a swallow of wine. “He’s dead. If they bring up the egg and I’m alive, I’ll give them triple gold.” That should bring them crawling. “Tell them.” He did. The men on deck drifted back to life, or perhaps only to death’s twin. Most of them were bruised and battered and bloodied, but none seemed badly hurt. A few were dead or dying, but they did not seem to notice. One man went below to see if any others had survived the storm, while another began to bail out the water that was slopping back and forth across the deck.

He bailed for half a minute, then gave it up as a bad job and went to vomit over the side. Someone else went to look for the longboats. That seemed fruitless, but at least it got him out of the way. An Illyrian archer took the wineskin from Tyrion and shared it with his friends. When it was empty they threw it down into the hold and started fighting over whose turn it was to go below and look for more. A big red-bearded man who had killed the woman in the green cloak claimed that it was his, since he had been the one to get hit. They argued about it for a good twenty minutes.

There was nothing for Tyrion to do but sit and watch. The sea was calm and blue and beautiful, and the sun was hot on his face. It was all so peaceful … and yet he had seen the storm. He had seen the rain lashing down and the thunder roaring and the lightning flashing, seen men die in wind and wave. It made no sense. He remembered something Jaime had said once, when they were boys playing at lord’s game together. If you see a dead man in your bedchamber, Tyrion, don’t say I never told you so.

“I didn’t,” he said to his dead brother. “This time I didn’t.” The dead man went away, and Tyrion Lannister closed his eyes and let the warm sun soak through his clothes and warm his skin. He tried to sleep. He could hear the men around him moving, but they were far away and their voices were no louder than the sea. The ship was moving too, creaking and groaning, but that was far away too, and soon he stopped hearing that as well. There was just the sea and the sun and the warm wind on his face. He might have slept, for all he knew.

When he woke the sea was gone. So was the sun. He was lying on his side, in water up to his ankle. A man in a leather apron was standing over him with a crossbow in his hands, looking at him uncertainly. “Do you have any gold on you, m’lord?” he asked. “We could use some gold right now.” “In my cabin,” Tyrion answered, wondering if he had dreamt the whole voyage. “My dragon’s egg.” “That’s fine, that will do,” the man said. “If you’ll just come with me, m’lord. We’ll get you safely to shore, I swear it, but the others will have to go over the side. There’s not room for them. I know it’s hard, but there’s no other way …”

He knew the voice. He sat up, and found that he was still in his clothes and dry beneath them. “Watty?” The old man blinked. “M’lord? Did … did you sleep through the battle?” “Battle?” Tyrion had never seen the old man look so young as he did just then, with the sunlight in his hair and the water running down his face. “You crossed the Blackwater in a rowboat, with Ser Jacelyn Bywater and three storm crow archers.

You shot the captain of the Red Spear through the chest at point-blank range, and then you got knocked overboard by a crossbow bolt. Ser Jacelyn pulled you out, but by then you’d drowned.” “I … what … how …” Tyrion shook his head. “What ship is this? Where are we?” “We are off Braavos, m’lord. This is Stannis Baratheon’s Fury, and I am your brother’s good friend Ser Davos Seaworth.” The light came on then, and Tyrion felt dizzy with relief. He had thought the Lannisters were alone in the world, and now … “Tell me everything,” he commanded, and Watty did, from the battle on the Blackwater to the Red Wedding and the rise of the Imp to Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.

Ser Davos Seaworth fed him a thick oaten porridge, and listened with growing astonishment as Tyrion told his own tale. “You came all this way for a … a dragon’s egg?” The porridge was pleasantly filling, but Tyrion found himself growing impatient with it. “Yes.” “Why?” “To sell. In Braavos.” “Braavos,” Ser Davos repeated. “And how will you get there?” “I don’t know,” Tyrion admitted, “but surely there must be ships at King’s Landing. Stannis has his Fury, the royal fleet is still in the river, what about the Targaryen ships? Where are they?

“Daenerys has them. She sailed for Westeros three years ago.” “Daenerys,” the old man said, as if the name were strange to him. “Viserys’s sister? The steel and dragon? But she’s only a girl.” “Fifteen or sixteen, I think.” “Sixteen,” Ser Davos said. “Well, that’s … good, I suppose. The older one was … still, she was no more than a child when Viserys died.

And good thing too. I never did care for the notion of Rhaegar’s son ruling over us.” “The exile’s son.” “Well, if not him, who? Stannis? If it please you, my lord, I’d sooner be ruled by Robert’s brother than Robert’s butcher. At least he’s never dipped his sword in the blood of … friends. It’s hard to stomach, if it please you, sir, but there it is.”

“I know.” Tyrion took a spoonful of porridge. “I never wanted to be a lord either. I was content to be Jaime’s brother, but when Robert wanted to bloody my friends, I had no choice but to take a seat in council. It’s not what I would have chosen, but now …” “Now?” “Now I am half a king.” “And how do you feel, my lord? Half as clever? Half as strong? Half as brave?”

“I am the same man I was in the cell, only now I wear a golden chain and sit in council.” The old man frowned. “You were in a cell? Was it King Stannis who set you free?” “No. I escaped.” “Then you are braver than I gave you credit for, my lord. And cleverer too. The Imp is famous for his cunning. Well, you had best be getting back to King’s Landing soon, if you hope to catch Robett and the other traitors before they flee the realm.” “I mean to.” “Do you have horses?” “Gold.” “Aye, gold will buy you horses. And ships as well, I would think. The Braavosi may not lend King Stannis the ships he needs to save the realm, but I’ll wager they will sell them to Lord Tywin.” “They will,” Tyrion said.

“If it please you, my lord, I could speak to the king on your behalf. He is not a man who forgets old debts.” “That is most kind of you,” said Tyrion, “but it is Stannis who owes me. And my brother Jaime as well. I …” He hesitated. Ser Davos was no Lannister, to be confided in so freely. And yet … “You were not the only one to escape, it seems. When the Red Wedding came, my brother’s squire was wounded and abandoned on the field. He was found by some of my lord father’s men and taken back to Riverrun to be healed.

“Catelyn Tully’s daughter was at the Twins as well. Her husband was one of the lords who joined Robb Stark against my father, but she left him there and fled back to Riverrun with her daughter, the Stark girl. It may be that the squire reached them safely. If he did, I would be much obliged if you would see that they hear from me. And that they get a chance to decide for themselves whether they wish to return to Winterfell or to remain with the Tullys at Riverrun. The girl was betrothed to one of Robb Stark’s lords, I believe, but her marriage is ended now. If she wants to go to her mother and live out her days at Riverrun, that is her right, and I will see that she is returned safely.

“The squire is a boy named Pod, the son of some minor lord who died when he was just a babe. He’s been Jaime’s squire for ten years, and he’s a good lad, though not of the stuff that lords are made of. I would hate for him to die for want of healing, after he’d been faithful to my brother through all these years of war. And Jaime will want to hear that the Stark girl is safe. She was the last living son of Eddard Stark, you know. If Robb is dead, she is the heir to Riverrun and Winterfell and all that Stark land. She is also the wife of one of my lord father’s bannermen, which might mean something in the days to come. My brother would want to know all of this, and so would my sister when she returns to King’s Landing.”

“My lord, it shall be as you command.” Tyrion finished his porridge and wiped his mouth with his forearm. “Tell me, how is it that I am here and Stannis is not?” “When we broke through the chain, the king was knocked overboard. A oarsman died saving him, and three others were hurt. The oar that struck him snapped in two, and one end floated free. Ser Gerald Gower grabbed it and used it to beat down the mutes. One of them had the king by the ankle, trying to drag him under. Gower smashed his head in with a piece of hull, and the other one threw himself into the sea.

“By then the Redwyne ships had come up on us. Lord Paxter gave us his cabin boy to help us look for you, and some of his crew joined in the search as well. But Ser Gerald swam out to look for the king. He found you as well, my lord, but by then you were dead.” “No.” “I am so sorry, my lord. We brought you back just the same, but … well, you saw how it was. I know Ser Gerald would have done the same for me, even though I’ve never been more than a squire and he’s some great lord’s brother. I would have tried, anyhow.

It’s not every man who gets a chance to save a king, but if it was me, I’d want some other man to save mine. That was why I never threw in with the Night’s Watch, though my father and my elder brother were both sworn. A Seaworth man has been a crow for a thousand years, but I’ve lived my whole life at sea.” Ser Davos took the empty porridge pot from Tyrion’s lap and set it aside. “The king is in his cabin, my lord, if you would like to see him. He still gets weak in the head sometimes, when he thinks on how close he came to drowning. He’s much better now, though, and almost back to his old self. I’ll take you to him, if you’d like.”

“I would,” said Tyrion, “but first I need to see the dragon’s egg.” “The dragon’s egg,” Ser Davos repeated. He looked somewhat doubtful. “Well, if it please you, my lord. If you’ll follow me.” The hold was dark and musty and full of the smell of tar and salt fish and stale urine. Three of the four lanterns had gone out, and the crew were too busy or too sick to relight them. Ser Davos Seaworth walked carefully among the cages, the crossbow in his hands. “You’ll want to be careful with this one,” he warned, lifting the lantern close. “He bit off two of the men who brought him up.” Tyrion lifted the egg out of its cage. It was as big around as a big man’s head and oddly misshapen, the shell twisted and lumpy and pitted with holes. A crack ran down one side, and when he gave it a squeeze the yolk inside stirred. “Is this all the gold you have?” a voice asked behind him.

Tyrion turned. “Gold?” “My lord left orders that no one was to disturb me until I had been woken and informed of events. Who are you, and what are you doing in my lord father’s strongbox?” The boy could not have been more than ten or twelve, yet he stood with the hauteur of a Hand. He was slight and pale and plain-featured, with close-cropped brown hair and a big nose. He was naked but for a silk bedrobe of purple samite, heavily embroidered with golden griffins.

“My lord, I have the honor to be Tyrion, of House Lannister.” “Of House Lannister?” The boy looked him up and down. “You are very small.” “And you are very young, it would seem.” Tyrion smiled. “How long have you been aboard this ship?” “Since the battle. My father thought it best that I remain out of the city. I am Lord Tywin’s only son. My name is …” “Joffrey,” Tyrion finished. “I know who you are. I am sorry for the discourtesy. I did not expect to find my young king in my father’s strongbox, but then, I did not expect to find myself on Stannis Baratheon’s ship either. I have a dragon’s egg here that I would like to show you.

“Joffrey,” the boy said again, with the air of one who was not quite certain of his name. “That is my name. No one ever tells me anything. My mother is not even certain of my name. She called me Tommen once. That is not my name. I am Joffrey. What is that?” Tyrion showed him the egg. “A dragon’s egg.” “Oh.” Joffrey looked unimpressed. “Have you ever seen a dragon?” “No, Your Grace. But my sister has three.” “Sisters can’t be kings.” “That remains to be seen.” Tyrion put the egg back into its cage. “Tell me, Your Grace, how is it that I am here and Stannis is not?”

“He’s in his cabin. He’s been there for two days. He won’t eat. He says he’s a king and kings can’t be afraid of anything, but he’s afraid of everything. He’s afraid to get out of bed, he’s afraid to leave the cabin, he’s afraid to look at the sea, he’s afraid to go to his own coronation. I had to drag him out to the side of the ship so he could watch the city go by, and he puked all over the deck. He says that I am the king now and that he is abdicing. He’s been making me sign things. I don’t know what they mean. I’m just a little boy. I’m not the king.” “He is afraid,” said Ser Davos.

“Yes,” said Tyrion, “but not for long, I hope.” He hoped not for Stannis’s sake, nor for the realm’s, but for his own. The Lannisters could not afford another king on the throne. come.” He finished his porridge just then, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “If it please you, Ser Davos, I would like to see King Stannis before I go. To pay my respects.”

“Of course,” Ser Davos said. “If it please you, my lord. I will take you to him at once.” The king was aboard his flagship, the Fury, anchored off the mouth of the Blackwater Rush. They took a longboat downriver, past the burned and blackened ruins of Lord Tywin’s pavilion, the ships that Robert had burned during his campaign, and the hulks of three Lannister galleys. The sun was low in the west by the time they reached the Fury, and the wind was rising again. The sails were stiff with wind, the oars were slaved in place, and the rowers resting, so they had to go up the side on ropes. Stannis Baratheon was on deck, bareheaded, his face reddened by the wind as he looked down into the river with a pair of polished hardwood cups in his hands.

When Ser Davos called out to him, he turned and saw them climbing. “Seaworth,” he said. “And Tyrion of … House Lannister, is it not? I had heard that you were dead.” “I was. I was dead for half a night. Then I got wet and woke up. It was very confusing.” “And now you come to pay me court? After everything that I have done to you? The Imp must be very anxious to make peace, if he would send his brother to grovel at my feet.

“I have no intention of groveling,” said Tyrion. “I know that my father would have fought on, but I do not have my father’s strength. Lord Tywin is dead. My father. My mother. My wife. All dead. My little queen. I … I never even met her, yet I loved her. My wife. Joffrey. My son. My cat. My poor brave little cat. All dead, and I do not know why. I only know that I must go to Braavos, and sell this dragon’s egg and buy a ship and sail away, before they kill me too.” He took a deep breath, and found that he was weeping. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not mean to … it is just that I am so tired, and there were so many and they were all so … angry, and the river was full of dead men and … I am so tired, sire. Please. If it please you, I need to sleep. Do you think … could I sleep?

“Your men will need to sleep as well, my lord,” said Stannis. “We will not press you for your swords, I promise you that. Yet even so, I cannot give you what you ask. You see this cup?” He raised it so Tyrion could see the inside. “This cup is black. I have another cup that is white. The wine is the same in each. Would you believe that some men prefer the white and some the black? No, you would. You are a Lannister.

“The same wine, the same sun, the same earth, yet men prefer their wine black or white, sweet or sour, spiced or plain, still or sparkling. A true king, however, must know which cup his people prefer. A just king must serve it to them. That is the duty of his office, and the burden.

“You have heard my brother declare himself? Robert was a just king as well. I never saw the man take an unjust action, no matter how small. He had a better grip on what was right and wrong than most men. Not that he always did what was right. He did what he believed in, and he always stood up for what he thought was just. I never knew my brother to be cruel, no matter how angry he was. He would take an enemy captive, put a sword to his throat, and yet he would listen to what he had to say. He had a better head on his shoulders than most men, and he did what he thought was right. That was Robert.

“Now you have me,” Stannis said. “Do you know why I think of them, side by side like that? It is because of you, Tyrion. I do not know which of us is the more mistaken. Robert for believing that he could be a king, or you for thinking you could be a Lannister. I will give you this, though. You are the first man in a long time to make me laugh.” Stannis Baratheon offered Tyrion his hand. “Come. I will give you a bunk, and a cup of wine, and we will talk more in the morning.

You will not try to kill me in my sleep, I hope? I have no taste for revenge … but it would be foolhardy of you to imagine that you could escape with your life, after all that has passed between us.” “I would not dream of it, Your Grace. If it please you.” “It does,” Stannis said, as they walked along the deck together. “And now you have me curious. Why did you want to see me, if not to ask for gold or swords?

“I had a favor to ask. For my brother, Jaime. I know that he is a captive here, but … I would beg you, sire, do no harm to him. He is not the monster that you think. Whatever he may have done, he does not enjoy hurting people. He is not evil, I swear it. My brother is the very opposite of evil. He is as good as the gods above us, and they must have made him, for who else could have made someone so perfect? I know that you do not believe me, but I beg you all the same, do not harm him.” Stannis gave Tyrion a long, searching look. “Why should I spare your brother?

“You do not have to spare him. I know that you are going to fight my father’s other sons, that you mean to take the Iron Throne for yourself. Jaime does not want any part of that. He will swear fealty to you, if you will only spare his life. He loves honor more than you can ever know, and he will never consent to be a king’s killer.” “He is a king’s killer already. There are men in the streets of King’s Landing who would cheerfully kill for the chance to carve out his liver with a spoon. And if I do not make an example of him, every turncloak and Frey and Mountain that I bring to battle here will remember him and fight all the harder.

“I will not make him a king’s killer … but I will need his sword. It may be that his oath will mean more coming from him than from you.” “You have my oath, Your Grace,” Tyrion said. “Jaime will swear his sword to you, if you spare him. I know he will. He is the very opposite of evil, I swear it.” Stannis looked at him long and hard. “Get some rest, Tyrion Lannister. We will talk again on the morrow, and I will let you know if I mean to take you up on your offer.” “I would be much obliged to you, sire,” said Tyrion, wondering what the morrow would bring.

He wondered even more the next day, when Stannis summoned him to his cabin and said, “I am going to take your advice, Tyrion Lannister. I believe that I will accept your brother’s sword … and I am going to send you back to King’s Landing to tell him so.” “Back?” “Yes.” The king frowned. “That is not what you asked of me, is it? You wanted to cross the narrow sea. Did you deceive me, Lannister, or do you have some other purpose in mind?

“No, I … it’s the ships, sire. I need to get across the narrow sea, but my father’s men will still be in King’s Landing, and I dare not try and buy a ship from them. If I go to Braavos as I planned, though …” “… they will not follow you. No. That would not serve my purposes either.” Stannis leaned back on his bunk. “I want your brother to know that I mean to take the realm from him. I mean to take the throne. I have no taste for pardons or sharing rule, and I will not be satisfied with a few scraps of land.

“I believe that your brother will fight me. I believe he will bring every man he can lay his hands on, and every bit of gold and steel he can scrape together. If I am right, this war will go on for years. My brother Robett is already gathering men in the riverlands. The lords of the Trident will sooner die than bend the knee. The Tyrells will fight, the Tarlys, the Florents. The Dornishmen will cross the mountains to join their prince. Lord Redwyne will send his whole fleet against me.

“Their cause is lost, every one of them. If your brother has any hope of defeating me, he will need to win the north. And the northmen despise him. I know, I have tried to win their allegiance myself. Lord Manderly will support me. Umber and Karstark as well. The Lannisters have nothing to offer the north but cold steel and colder hearts. Your brother will have no one up there but the Boltons, and the northmen hate the Boltons worse than they hate Lannisters.

“Yet I know your brother, Lord Tywin’s son. I know that he is brave, and clever, and resourceful. I know that he loves his brothers well. I believe that he would gladly give up the Iron Throne itself if he could somehow arrange to save their lives. If he thinks that he must choose between his brothers and the north, he will choose his brothers.

“And when he does, the north will rise for Stannis Baratheon.” The king leaned forward again, his dark eyes burning. “That is what I want your brother to know. That is the message I want you to take back to him. Tell him that Stannis Baratheon is coming. Tell him that I will bring fire.” “You will,” Tyrion agreed. “You most certainly will.” The next day he was rowed ashore in one of the Fury’s longboats, with Ser Davos and six oarsmen. As they approached the bank, the sound of drums came faintly through the trees, and Tyrion glimpsed the golden crown through the branches, painted on a huge cloth banner that flapped in the wind. A large host had gathered to see the Imp return from the dead.

The northmen were a strange-looking lot, he decided. Big fair men, taller than most, with face-braid and beards in every color but gold, red, and pink. Their fur cloaks were undyed and shaggy, their mail shirts rusted and patched, their shields wooden and painted with the shapes of trees and bears and badgers and wolves. Some wore ringmail, others boiled leather. They were armed with axes and flails and hammers. A few had swords, but he did not see a single lance.

The clansmen lined the road, and they were even stranger. Some wore skins and furs, some had faces painted bright red. Others were half-naked, with blue and green tattoos covering their arms and chests. They had axes and clubs, some with wooden hammers painted with the Lord of Light and some with spiked maces. There were even a few with scythes, and one man had a spiked flail that looked big enough to cleave a ship in two. The women were not much less terrifying, with their axes and saws and butcher’s cleavers.

He had never seen so many axes in his life. At least the sight of them brought back some good memories. Whenever he had asked Ser Kevan Lannister where all the northmen were, his uncle would smile and say, “They’re hiding in the shadows. It’s the wolves you need to watch. The direwolves, the hounds of Stark.” He had not seen many direwolves in his life, but he could see why men would fear them. These northmen might be rough-hewn and primitive, but they were as fierce as any wolves.

Their women would not hesitate to hack off a man’s cock, if he was what they wanted, but if he was not, they would disembowel him just the same. And the men were as savage. They cheered Tyrion’s return with shouts and jeers, and threw dung and rotten food. When he vaulted up onto the bank, he did it with such grace that the crowd went silent. For half a heartbeat Tyrion wondered if they were actually going to let him pass. Then an old man in a ragged bearskin cloak pushed his way through the press of bodies, hobbles, and screamed, “Here he is! Here’s the Imp! Here’s the little lordling who rode in on his father’s back, the little craven!

The northmen roared their laughter. The big man swung his club, and one of the oarsmen cried out, “He’s wet!” And then all the northmen joined in the sport. The big man swung his club and smashed the Imp’s face. The old woman rushed at him, screaming, “He’s wet! The little lordling’s wet!” She swung her axe, but the old man was quicker. He bashed her in the head, and she sprawled at his feet.

Ser Davos pushed him roughly. “Get on your knees, Tyrion.” Tyrion dropped to his knees. “What do you want?” “I want to see my king,” he said. The old woman’s body twitched and trembled. He could hear her teeth grinding in her jaw as she died. When the big one swung his club down and smashed her skull to pulp, she had been so close he could smell the stink of her, and the hot blood and the stench of her, and the sweet sharp smell of her pig grease. The Imp was in no mood for pig grease. “What’s that smell?” he growled, looking for himself. Then he remembered. It was him. He was wet. He’d woken and washed and dressed and combed down to breakfast and now here he was, stinking and smelling of pig grease.

He knelt at the big one, and said, “You will oblige me if you hit me with that club, you will. I warn you.” “I’m a northman,” said the big one. “I don’t. My name is Big Beren, and I keep that club for hitting fools who try to tell me what to do. The only reason I came all the way down from Winterfell was to have a look at this little lordling.” The crowd roared at that. “Hit him!” they screamed, and Tyrion could feel the hot breath on his neck, as the northmen surged forward, boiling and snarling and cursing like a pack of wolves, howling at his heels. A woman with a butcher’s cleaver came boiling toward him. He turned and ran. The wolves were close behind him, and now they were all howling at his back.

Behind them came Shagwell, the last of Robert’s bitches. One was green and one was blue. It was dark beneath the trees, but the bells were ringing, and he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he could not outrun those bitches. He’d have to turn and run. He could run as fast as he could, and hope that bloody feet would be better than bloody hands. He had no choice. He could try to flee, though there were ships’ no boat would dare to carry him north. He could only run. And run. And run he did, as fast as any man could, though his legs were bloody stumps, though his will was stronger than he could have hoped. He ran through the night, through the woods, and over rough, over mountains and across rivers and past dozens of miles.

When the dawn broke, he was still running, though his legs were bleeding and his tongue was torn and swollen. His throat was raw, and it ached to call for help, but there were no ships to be seen, and he could not ask for it. There were only his wits, and his brother’s, and his father’s bones. If he lived long enough to see the dawn, he would find them scattered bones. He could pick and choose, though, and he knew his brother would choose him. His father had always chosen him, and he could not see how it would be, but he knew. He’d seen the direwolf’s head. It had been, and he had heard his father say that he would and he could, so wise as to leave him to his fate, to go running. His father had run. His brother too. So he ran, and kept on running, until his legs were raw and swollen and bleeding, until he could see his shadow on. And there in his shadow he saw a wolf.

A wolf, he thought. And it was a direwolf, and it was coming for him, and it would be with him, and he with his sword, and he knew his sword was not even dulling, though it was heavy in his hand. It was the truth to say that much of the wisdom, for it was the best sword that he could hold, and it would not bend. It would be the best sword that he could hold, or it would break. And he knew it would break, just as he’d wanted to die. He could hold it, but he could not go running forever, not with his sword, not even with his wits to make him tired. His legs were sore and swollen, his shins bloody and torn. His throat was dry and hoarse. His balls of fur. He was half a wolf, him, and he knew it, that it was him who was running there in the dark. The wolf ran through the moonlit night, his shadow following close behind. And in that shadow there was this little lordling, this small, this small, this sweet young wolf, this gentle beast.

He would go back to King’s Landing before the wolf had gone. He would go back, and he would never run again. He would walk, and he would never run, and he would be content with his life. He had been a beast. He was a beast. He was a beast, and he was happy, for some reason. He did not know why, though, to look at it, he knew that he would not be running. He would climb aboard his own ship, he would not sail, though he was tired. He had been tired, so tired that he could not see, even with his eyes closed, he could not see, even with his hands. The wolf had come so, and he could not see his hands.

It’s not for me to say whether she should return to her husband or go home to her mother’s house to grieve for her father, her brother, her mother, and her little brother Bran, all of whom are dead, so far as we know. I would leave that for her to decide, once she is old enough.” He finished off the last of the porridge. “If you would be so good as to tell me where we are, perhaps I could take it up with King Stannis myself.”

Ser Davos pointed across the calm blue waters of the bay. “Yonder.” Tyrion looked, and saw the distant spires and towers of a great city rising from the sea. “Braavos,” he said, in a flat dead voice. “The City of Areos. The City of Canals. The City of Masks.” “And of ships as well,” said Ser Davos. “We should have no difficulty finding you a passage back to King’s Landing, I would think.”

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