Shrouded Destiny

Obligatory disclaimer: I don't own ASOIAF; that honour goes to GRRM.

Edited by: Himura, and R. Yorkshireman; B. Reader: Bub3loka

I also want to thank everyone for their support and encouragement.

***

7th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Ser Davos Seaworth, King's Landing

Davos stared as the Fury approached King's Landing. For once, they were not turning to the mouth of the Blackwater Rush, for the docks there had been turned to cinders by the Tyroshi, and then the Reachmen prevented any efforts to rebuild.

Instead, a makeshift array of floating planks had been strapped to the pinned logs under the city wall just between the Iron Gate and Aegon's hill. It was defended by a small lagoon that went into the city proper, protected by rusted iron bars, making the only way in without a boat through the curtain walls.

While far smaller and more cramped than the original docks, it allowed the city to resupply, unmolested by the sieging Reachmen.

His mind drifted to the last moons.

Unlike what Davos had thought, fighting the Tyroshi ships was not as daunting as they expected. For good or bad, the Essosi fleet decided to cut off their losses and flee despite still outnumbering them after Shireen won their sixth battle and many more skirmishes in a row. Not all of them had left, however. Davos had seen their likes before, and the Tyroshi were poorly organised. Otherwise, they wouldn't have fled at the first sign of stiff resistance.

The Archon of Tyrosh had doubtlessly recruited each vessel and captain he could have gotten his hands on in short order, including merchants, sellsails, and pirates from the Stepstones and the neighbouring cities and towns. Many remained even after the bulk of the fleet had been defeated, hellbent on plundering as much as possible. After all the fighting, Maester Cressen had estimated that the Tyroshi numbered over seven hundred vessels, over double the initial estimate, but barely a fifth were warships. 

Shireen had taken over a whole moon to meticulously hunt down every lingering slaving ship from Crackclaw Point to Massey's Hook. Just like her father, she was thorough in everything she did.

While the young Lady of Dragonstone put up a brave front before the mariners, knights, and men-at-arms, Davos had seen her puke her guts out after each battle and cry herself to sleep for a fortnight after the first battle. After that, the sobs had stopped, but Shireen's pale face each morning implied nightmares had arrived instead. How many men had fallen to the young lady's crossbow?

Davos had stopped counting after two dozen. 

Would the Seven even forgive him for putting such a hefty burden on her young shoulders, even if Shireen carried it far better than he ever could?

Even if the fighting and command had taken a toll on the Lady of Dragonstone, she did it all without complaint and more. And the men loved her for it.

The Onion Knight could see it in their gazes, that look of respect and admiration with the slightest tinge of fear. Knights and lords, mariners and sailors, all who had fought for Stannis before, would follow the young Lady Stoneface, as the Tyroshi called her, into the Seven Hells should she lead them there. It was an insulting title, but Shireen took it in stride despite the Greyscale scars on her cheek.

But the troubles began to sprout like shrooms after rain once the fighting had finished. Capturing or sinking vessels was easy, but what came afterwards threatened to overturn all their achievements. The sheer logistics of war, the organisation of loot–which had to be returned, which were to be kept (mostly supplies, gold, and arms)–and how to return the freed captives to their homes nearly brought their lightning-swift campaign to a grinding halt. 

They could no longer use their fast and small fleet to attack different groups of slavers. Even their captured ships could not be quickly commandeered due to their lack of sailors. Lady Shireen insisted that all captives had to be returned, threatening to slow further operations.

Truth be told, it wasn't as troublesome as Davos feared, but each situation was a new challenge, something he never had to deal with before, leaving him flatfooted. Thankfully, Shireen's other advisors helped immensely. 

They had expected Shireen's call for assistance against the slavers to remain ignored. Not only was she one and ten and as green as summer grass, but she had been woefully outnumbered.

But they were all mistaken, including Davos, for nearly twenty days after the ravens had been sent out, aid started to arrive.

Dragonstone saw nearly a hundred ships approach–most were merchant cogs, but over a third were heavy warships, and there was no doubt about who they belonged to, for the sails were a colourful but familiar array of coat of arms. The yellow burning tower of Grafton, the rusty anchor of Melcolm, the blue falcon of Arryn–the Gulltown ones–the golden wings of Shett, the bronze runes of Royce, the eclipsed sun of Pryor, the black star on the pink of Elesham, the cresting sea-green wave of Upcliff.

Almost the whole naval might of the Vale had arrived, led by the charming Ser Galen Grafton and the dangerous Ser Jason Melcolm–both heirs to their Houses.

"We cannot let such vile scum as slavers and pirates dwell here," Galen had said when he kissed Shireen's hand, earning himself a stiff nod. "From the Paps to the Bloody Gate, septons denounce your uncle Renly for his blatant alliance with corsairs and manhunters."

"You live up to your father's name and his prowess at sea, Lady Baratheon," the Melcolm knight had added gruffly. "We are yours to command."

Then, the unruly Clawmen, who had not answered Joffrey's call to arms, started to trickle in.

The first one was the wroth Ser Jonothor Cave, a bear of a man and the knight of the Red Cave.

"They took me precious daughter," he had hissed through gritted teeth. "I'll fight fer ya, little doe, so long as you help me get her back!"

"My men and I don't know how to tie a seaman's knot or raise a sail," Ser Robin Brune admitted two days later as he showed up on Dragonstone with three hundred swords. "But we know all about killing."

Boggs, the two branches of the Brunes, Cave, Crabb, Hardy, and Pyne, had all lost someone to the Tyroshi raiding their coasts. Killed or taken did not matter–the Clawnmen wanted their due in blood.

According to Ser Lothor Hardy, they were vengeful, and the grudge against the slavers would not be forgotten for generations. 

The previous lack of deckhands, marines, and fighters on Shireen's ships was quickly satisfied, and they even managed to man another twenty ships captured from the Tyroshi. The additional vessels allowed them to swiftly return the smallfolk and other captives to their homes. Most of them were from the Crownlands, quickly proving thankful for the Lady's actions.

For barely a sennight after the last captive was ferried to Duskendale came the knights of the Crownlands with their retinues–the boastful Ser Godry Farring, the calm Lord Harte, Rollingford, Cressey, Follard, Blounts and many more. Hundreds of hedge knights had flocked to Shireen's banner for a worthy cause. Shireen would have been unable to pay so many retainers and warriors even with the spoils taken from the Tyroshi. Still, many requested barely a third of the payment to fight against slavers, food, and boarding.

Unmentioned was the promise of loot. No man went to war expecting no loot.

Word of Renly's alliance with the Tyroshi had gone out, and the fallout was just beginning to show. It swayed all the neutral and the hesitating in the arms of Joffrey–and Shireen, by extension. The ripples in the Faith were even slower, but they echoed loudly.

"Corbray, Bellmore, and Ser Egen were talking of supporting Renly," Ser Galen Grafton had confided to Shireen. "But once the word of slavers and reavers arrived, nobody mentioned his name ever again, and each Septon denounced Renly as a heretic. The biggest factions for Lord Arryn's regency are Lord Royce and the other lords who want to support King Joffrey and Lady Waynwood, who desire to remain neutral, but even the fighting had toned down last I heard from my father. I suspect hundreds of "hedge knights" and freeriders will ride down the High Road before the moon is out to join Lord Tully, and even the stubborn Ser Vardis Egen will open the Bloody Gate for them to pass."

Just as Davos thought nobody else would show up, he was proven wrong. Northern ships were spotted on the horizon. 

Sails belonging to Woolfield, Manderly, the Flints of Widow's Watch, and all of the Sistermen with all their might to a total of a hundred and twenty more ships, all led by the young but stout Ser Merlick Manderly.

Davos knew the Sistermen had no love for the Northmen, yet they all arrived together. The Lords of the Three Sisters had a black repute and none more so than Godric Borrell, Lord of Sweetsister, Shield of Sisterton, Master of Breakwater Castle, and Keeper of the Night Lamp. And yet, here they were, all grudges seemingly forgotten.

"The kings, crowns, and highlords have not bothered with the Sisters for centuries," Lord Godric had scoffed derisively. "Why would they? We are poor."

"Then why are you here?" Davos asked.

"It is not every day a Baratheon writes to us, let alone the daughter of the Demon of the Tides himself, begging us for help," he laughed. "If those sods from Old Anchor, Gulltown, White Harbour, and Witch Isles can answer the call, so can we."

There was more to his presence here, but Davos didn't ask; he did not need to be a Maester to understand the man. No man goes to war expecting no reward. As the Sisterman said, they were poor, and war was a profitable venture with plenty of opportunities. Being at the right place at the right time could see you rise high, and even Davos climbed out of the common muck into knighthood accompanied by a patch of land with a mere boat filled with salted fish and onions.

"You are in luck, Lady Shireen," the merman knight had patted his bulging belly at the welcoming feast later that night. "Our ships are plentiful, but we lacked the hands to man the sails. When your raven arrived, the Crowl, Magnar, and Stane chieftains were in White Harbour to negotiate with Lord Manderly. The haggling was forgotten in the face of food, glory, plunder, and fighting, and the deal was struck."

Which explained the over three thousand Skagosi rearing up for a fight in the Northern fleet. Davos knew they were excellent sailors, for they had to brave the dangerous waters of the Shivering Sea and Bay of Seals. Even if the Stark of Winterfell had forbidden them from building a fleet, they still sailed smaller fishing rafts and skiffs.

What had been barely sixty ships cobbled up in haste had now swelled to nearly three hundred. Even more of the captured Tyroshi ships were repurposed for war at the shipyards at Hull, Driftmark, and Dragonstone. 

It was a mighty yet unruly host, but what helped Shireen consolidate her position as a leader were the decisive victories, leading in person, and her father's name. Joffrey Baratheon's unprecedented acknowledgement and invitation to the small council had silenced the naysayers. And the array of banners behind her was unprecedented in history. Old Cressen said that Clawmen, Skagosi, Sistermen, Valemen, Velaryons, and Northmen had never fought under one banner before. 

At one and ten, Shireen Baratheon was also the first woman to ever sit on a royal council. 

"Not the first time," Maester Pylos had corrected. "Tyanna of the Tower was Maegor's mistress of whispers."

"Bollocks, I say," Ser Lothor Hardy waved dismissively. "That's not a martial position, and the woman was not only the Cruel's wife but his pet sorceress. Clearly, she earned that position not on her own merits but in the bed."

Shireen had accepted the role of the first-ever mistress of ships, but only after the last slavers had been expelled from Blackwater Bay and the Crownlands waters.

Joining Renly or remaining neutral had become nigh impossible after his alliance with Tyrosh.

"My bannermen and new allies would rebel if such a thing were ever to happen," Shireen had admitted to Davos last night. "And my father taught me never to give an order I know won't be obeyed."

And now, they were finally arriving at King's Landing. Truth be told, Davos kept worrying–because he was officially the acknowledged regent. He felt way out of his depths when trying to run Dragonstone, let alone now with a whole fleet amidst a war. Even though Shireen did everything well, he had to give prudent advice in a bid to lighten her burden somewhat. 

Oh, how he wished there was peace or that Shireen could have avoided the war, but the Tyroshi attack had made that impossible.

"Be courteous but firm, my lady," the Lord of the Tides advised as they approached King's Landing. Any of his previous disgruntlement against Shireen and Davos had been forgotten, and the former smuggler could see something in his purple eyes as the Velaryon lord looked at the young maiden. The same soft way fathers looked upon their daughters if tinged by pride. "The royal court has been the grave of many men and women, and all the vultures would circle above, looking for a sign of weakness or a chance to bend you to their will, while snakes slithered on the ground, hiding beneath fake smiles. This is but another battlefield, if no less deadly and far more insidious."

Shireen grimaced. "What can I do, then?"

"Decline all private meetings or invitations," Monford then patted his chest. "Say you're too busy, and the schemers will have no choice but to approach your retinue. Ser Davos, me, and even Ser Jason Melcolm can deal with these vipers."

Davos knew his name was only uttered out of Velaryon's wish for harmony because no courtiers would lower themselves to speak to a lowly smuggler. While his wish to hold Shireen's regency was thwarted, Monford now desired to take his position as her most trusted advisor.

But while the Lord of the Tides could navigate in the stormy dark sea that was nobility, Davos was no slouch either.

"Ser Jason seems like a man who would chop the head off a lickspittle than suffer their poisoned tongue," he pointed out. The Melcolm heir had been ruthless in the last battle against the lingering pirates–he had killed fifteen with lethal efficiency, even more than Ser Clayton Suggs, Godric Farrings' crony knight who was one of the most bloodthirsty men Davos had seen. 

"Precisely," Velaryon's voice thickened with amusement. "But he has honour and restraint and would probably challenge each fool that irks him to single combat."

They arrived shortly after. Davos' eyes wandered to the curtain wall; there was no gate here, only a small postern door, though there were makeshift stairs up the fortifications to ease the flow of people. Even the harbour was smaller than he had expected, reminding him of the wharfs larger fishing villages could boast.

On the makeshift docks, they were met with a grand retinue led by the boy-king himself, clad in crimson and gold. What was a charming golden-haired teen was replaced by skittishness and scarring, and any baby fat had dwindled from his face, revealing sunken cheeks that reminded Davos of a starving man. Joffrey Baratheon's right eye had been clawed out brutally, judging by the angry scars around it, and in its stead was an emerald the size of a goose egg. Other scars ran down his chin, hidden under the red velvet collar.

Shireen's retinue all knelt, and just as she was about to do the same and swear fealty, Joffrey stepped forth. 

"None of that, Cousin," his voice was genial and warm as he pulled her into a hug, making Shireen stiffen. "Your victories pleased us greatly. If I had three more with the wits and daring of you and Robb Stark, Renly's head would already be on a spike atop my gate. I have heard you are a deft hand at using crossbows. Here."

One of the white cloaks came over, holding the most opulent crossbow Davos had ever seen. Sleek polished weirwood looked impossibly smooth, and the metal bits were intricate and gilded, glittering in the sunlight and reminding him of those ceremonial swords some lords wore to show off. Yet the pale wood promised extreme lethality.

Shireen's eyes lit up as she carefully inspected the crossbow. The old smuggler had never seen her half as happy when looking at gold, gemstones, jewellery, or fine fabrics as other young maidens her age. 

"It's good, isn't it?" The young king asked knowingly. "A mechanical draw of nearly a thousand pounds, enough to punch through plate up close, and the master assured me this one is functional and will never break so long as it's maintained and kept clean."

"A great gift, Your Grace," Shireen curtsied this time. All stiffness and tension had bled out of her posture. 

The reply pleased Joffrey greatly, for his smile only widened further.

"It is the least I could do when you sent those Tyroshi dogs running. Regardless, I tire of these… filthy docks. Let us move to the Red Keep for a proper greeting." 

Finally, the royal retinue behind the docks shuffled, and Davos could finally inspect them. An ageing, authoritative man with a full golden moustache and a shaved head who could only be the Lion of Lannister himself was just behind the king with a stony face and solemn gaze scrutinising him. Davos's knees felt weak under his gaze, and he barely managed not to topple into the nearby waters. By his side were two golden-haired ladies garbed in opulent attires worth more gold than Davos had ever earned in his years of smuggling. 

The younger would be the young Queen Myrielle Lannister, especially with her swelling belly, while the other was Cersei Lannister, whose face looked as if she had swallowed a lemon whole. She no longer looked as bright and beautiful as Davos remembered, but it could be his mind playing tricks or just the vestiges of time.

Nearby was the new High Septon with his crystalline crown, twice as tall as the one the Fat One wore, and he gazed at Shireen with open approval.

While Davos felt small and unimportant, as nobody even spared him a look, the Young Lady of Dragonstone was undaunted by all of their attention and followed after Joffrey towards the postern door.

***

Shireen had proved to be very popular at court. The courtiers and the Faith seemed to sing her praises during the feast. Davos never felt so out of place at the high table with all these important ladies and lords who looked at him with either suspicion or scorn.

Yet he had often been met with such disdain from highborns, so it didn't bother him much, especially since the food was excellent and his tongue was in heaven. 

The feast was boisterous, with mummers, bards, and acrobats entertaining the nobles; it was as if the city was not under siege. Then, the young king stood up in the middle of the celebrations, and everyone quieted. 

"Cousin, you have done us a great service," Joffrey dramatically paused as he raised his golden chalice. The hall was filled with toasts and courtiers chanting, 'Baratheon!' "But I'm afraid I must request more of you."

"Your Grace?"

His face twisted in a savage snarl.

"My treacherous Uncle thinks me weak, even if he dares not storm my walls," he hissed. "Those slaving scum think they can attack my kingdom with impunity and burn my fleet?! Such an insult cannot stand. I have a new task for my mistress of ships!"

"I am yours to command," Shireen bowed from her seat, her face turning expressionless again.

Joffrey's wrath evaporated as his sole eye lit up with amusement, as his previous words had been a mummer's farce.

"Good, good. I am tired of hearing excuses and empty platitudes." The derisive insult failed to give any names, but Joffrey and many courtiers glanced at Lord Tywin Lannister, who seemed unaffected as he slowly sipped from a glass of wine.

The young king flourished his hands, and his smile returned as he gazed at Shireen. 

"But I know my cousin would not disappoint me. Shireen of House Baratheon, I want you to sack Tyrosh for their insolent assault. Unlike those lauded commanders who lose battle after battle, you have proven yourself worthy. Can you do it? Can you wring that city for all its worth and kill that foolish Archon and his impudent Magisters?"

"It shall be done, Your Grace," Shireen declared without a hint of hesitation. "Many want to save their kith and kin from the hands of the slavers."

The feast continued even more fervently. Wine flowed like a river, and food that could fill thousands of bellies disappeared within hours as if the war had been won.

"Blessed by the Warrior and the Crone," Davos heard the Highsepton say. "The Seven shall lend their strength to your righteous cause, Lady Baratheon!"

After he filled his belly, the Onion Knight had more than enough of the pomp and the feast and retired to his quarters in the tower of the outer yard. The whole tower was given to Shireen and her retinue.

Glancing through the shutters down King's Landing's usually lively streets was jarring. The rest of the city starkly contrasted with the pomp and cheer in the Red Keep. Alleys, fishmarkets and squares were far less crowded, and he could see knights and men-at-arms patrolling up and down the streets. 

It showed that King's Landing was under siege, Fleabottom was empty, and you could hear the rumble and crashes as the trebuchets hurled rocks at the city's wall and above it. Tywin Lannister had cleaned all the buildings within fifty yards of the city walls, and their mortar, stones, and wood were used to repair the damage of the trebuchets to the gates and walls. Apparently, Renly was trying the gates with axes and torches every day and night but had yet to commit to a full assault.

However, according to Ser Lothor, who went to gather hearsay at the inns, there were rumours that the Reachmen were throwing dead bodies into the city with their catapults in hopes of spreading fear and disease.

"None are worried," the master-at-arms scoffed as they gathered in the tower's parlour. "The Young Wolf has chased out the Flowers and will crush the Squids in the Westerlands, and the Old Lion's men can now fight calmly, knowing their homes aren't on fire. The city might be half empty, but now there's plenty of food you can buy, so nobody is starving. I sneaked a peek at the fortifications at the inner gates, and there were three barricades, rows of sharpened stakes, and traps. I heard the arbalests in the city are all churning out crossbows as fast as they can and that the rooftops will all be manned by marksmen should the walls be breached."

"So Renly can't take the city," the Velaryon lord summarised lazily; he retired early, as if not to be outdone in usefulness by Davos. "With nearly forty thousand men defending the walls, rushing in will see his forces crippled at best. According to my men, the city's food stocks are plentiful, but the Lion Lord did not take any chances; only those who had managed to stockpile three years' worth of supplies were not kicked out."

"You have seen the city of Tyrosh, Ser Davos," Ser Galen Grafton was the next to arrive from the feast, his face rosy red from drink. "Tell us, how are our chances against it?"

"Crushing their remaining fleet ought not be hard if they keep fighting the same way," he shrugged. "The walls, however, are tall, though their city guard is somewhat lax but numerous since the Nine sacked Tyrosh. Alas, I am not well-versed in matters of fighting and war, Ser."

Truth be told, Davos's heart was heavy when thinking about the coming battles. Killing and fighting were so final. It felt as if once the great lords stirred and mustered their swords, everyone lost their minds, and rivers of blood started to flow. Law, order, honour, and justice were all but forgotten at the prospect of killing and glory.

If you killed enough, you could earn a knightly title or even lands and other honours. If you killed enough, you could loot everything your enemy had and earn yourself enough riches to live in luxury till your death. Then came the mad matters of the Faith. Before, the septons preached about piety, understanding, harmony, and peace.

Now? Even the High Septon endorsed war, murder, fighting against slavery and burning heretics loudly and often.

Alas, peace would not return lest they won, so Davos steeled his heart to see Shireen through all the strife no matter what. His bones were old, and his wits not as quick as a decade prior, but he would give it his all.

To his great surprise, a red cloak arrived to invite him to an urgent private audience with the Hand just as he prepared for sleep.

Tempted as he was to call for his Lady, Davos decided to let her enjoy her sleep. He could always report to her what the Hand wanted in the morning. Besides, one did not simply refuse Tywin Lannister, even if the Old Lion was seemingly out of favour with the king. 

A sleepy and tired Davos followed through the dark yard into the Tower of the Hand's private audience chamber. Lit by myriad candles, the room was filled with a pleasant, soothing aroma that only made him drowsier. Yet the man inside awakened him instantly–clad in a crimson doublet, the Old Lion Lord awaited him on the desk with his fingers folded.

Now, away from court, the Lord of Casterly Rock had a domineering presence, as if the whole world were in his grasp, that made Davos feel small and insignificant like an ant, especially those green eyes that felt like they saw through you.

"You summoned me, Lord Hand?" Davos carefully asked as he sat across the desk, suppressing his trepidation. This was not only about him; he was here representing Shireen, so the former smuggler could not make a fool of himself. 

Davos tried to remember all the courtesies and manners a noble ought to know, but his mind came blank.

"Indeed. Congratulations are in order, Ser," Tywin inclined his head barely. "Your victories in Blackwater Bay were unexpected but spectacular and welcome in their apt timing."

"What?" Davos just blinked, confused. "Those were all Shireen, my lord. I was just there to advise her."

The Old Lion nodded knowingly. "Ah, I see. Very well, I suppose we can continue playing that game. It is suitably cunning, I'd say. Having an eleven-year-old girl best Renly's pirates is a heavy blow to his already dwindling repute." 

"But-"

"There's no need to waste on false humility," Tywin said. "Your services will be richly rewarded with a hefty lordship by the time the war ends. You will find that no House is more generous than the Lannisters of Casterly Rock for services rendered."

Davos was too stunned to speak. Why was the Old Lion speaking like he had planned all the victories?

But Tywin continued, "Regardless, His Grace's command is far too daring, and he's too young to understand the intricacies of war. The risk of storming Tyrosh is too much, and we cannot afford to lose our ships in the Narrow Sea when my spies have reported that the Reach has mobilised all of its fleets–Redwyne, Hightower, and Tyrell. Burn Tyrosh's harbours, shipyards, and boats to prevent them from further participating in the war should the chance appear, but your main goal is denying the Redwynes passage through the Stepstones."

"Pardon?" Davos groaned. "This must be some misunderstanding. I-"

"I see you want to continue your ruse. I suppose it did serve you well, but no matter. I will make you a mighty lord should you succeed, Ser Davos." Tywin stood up. "Second only to highlords, of course."

"Err, very well," the former smuggler scratched his head, giving up trying to understand what was going on in the mighty Lion Lord's mind. Regardless, he would simply inform Shireen. "Is there anything else?"

"When the war is won, plenty of grand castles and mighty keeps would require loyal and capable men to hold them. I will even lend you five thousand of my men-at-arms, for I have far more than I need to defend this city," the austere lord finished, finally looking satisfied. "Remember, this meeting never happened."

The Old Lion left the audience chamber, leaving a dazed Davos behind. He pinched himself on the side, but the jolt of pain told him that, no, this was not a dream. The damned Tywin Lannister had barely let him speak, ordering him around like a common servant.

By the time a maid came to escort him out, Davos was certain the world had surely gone crazy.

When the morrow came, and he confided about the meeting to Shireen, she laughed so hard that her eyes were wet with tears. 

***

11th Day of the 5th Moon, 299 AC

Tyrion Lannister, the dungeons of Tyrosh

"They probably think me dead, just like they thought you had escaped to the Summer Isles," Lewis Lydden moaned. His new cellmate, the master of ships, was a pitiful sight. His figure had gone gaunt, and his voice hoarse in the darkness. Lydden was optimistic at the beginning of his stay, claiming he would be ransomed. Yet reality was cruel, and no such talks or offers came from his family, so the man turned despondent. 

Despite his prickly presence, Tyrion was glad to be no longer alone, and the lord was not wrong either. No help was coming.

But Tyrion already knew that moons before, even if it rankled him that they thought him a deserter. He might not love his family, but running away at the first sign of hardship? Never!

Even stunted lions did not lack courage.

For all the two of them knew, which wasn't much, the war was worsening even further. There were no more visits by Magister Sarrios, and only the silent guards pushed the platter of food through the locked slot in the door.

The one time Tyrion did not return the tray and bowls, he received no food the next day, which denied him another way to escape. The walls were solid stone, for the cell had been carved into the bedrock below the Archon's palace; the door was heavy and studded with iron nails from what Tyrion had seen when the magister had visited.

No guard stood outside the door, and he never heard footsteps aside from the daily meal, which meant no guards were patrolling or swapping posts. Tyrion suspected the stairwell out of the dungeon was heavily guarded, though. 

Yet all the time in the silence allowed him time to plot, scheme, and plan. Thousands of plans about crushing the Archonate of Tyrosh turned through his head, some fantastical, some cruel and vile, or even silly, but all were impossible from their cell.

His eyes had gotten used to the darkness, and he had inspected each inch of the cell, and there was no escape. Even the hole for air on the ceiling he had noticed was impossibly thin, and they could not reach it. 

That did not mean he was not without plans. 

"Five to seven more moons, and we can try our escape," Tyrion whispered after the guards brought their daily food tray. It was just hard bread and two plain, thin wooden bowls of soup–usually mutton. There was no cutlery, of course, and the cup of weak cider only came once a week. 

"Are you sure this will work?"

"Of course. Have you not heard all those knights and men-at-arms whinge when their squires let their arms or armour rust, making it useless? Most were exaggerating, but heavily rusted iron is quite brittle. Well, whoever prepared our meals started salting our mutton too much, and thankfully, nothing rusts iron like salt." 

It had to be personal. While salt was not exactly expensive in Tyrosh due to their rich salt deposits, making a prisoner's meal salty was too wasteful to be anything but petty. It coincided with when Lydden arrived, which made Tyrion suspect the Tyroshi had not left Blackwater Bay completely unscathed.

Perhaps whoever cooked their meals had lost a kinsman in the fighting?

Ultimately, it didn't matter because it had given Tyrion an idea. As soon as the guards' footsteps dwindled into the darkness, he picked up the bowl, carefully poured some of the salty broth into the keyhole, and spat some more at the gap where the lock was before hungrily slurping down the rest. 

Lewis Lydden did much the same, but both left a mouthful in the bottom–to pour even more salt on the keyhole and the lock later on.

Lydden slumped by his side, "Even if we manage to rust our way through the door, there's no guarantee we can escape the Archon's palace unnoticed. We look and probably smell like prisoners." Shitting and pissing in the corner wasn't exactly pleasant, but Tyrion had grown used to the smell long ago.

"The city of Tyrosh hosts over a million souls," Tyrion replied. "We'll have a decent chance of slipping away if we make it out through the night. Better than just waiting and hoping something changes. Besides, the war surely isn't going that bad. If Joffrey lost, we would be killed or handed to Renly. Yet more prisoners would join us if the Tyroshi had continued winning."

"I did see other prisoners in the cells on the way here: knights and heirs to noble houses. Undoubtedly, also awaiting ransom, but why would the Tyroshi wait so long? Perhaps we lost, our homes sacked for all they're worth, and we're already forgotten."

Perhaps they were, but Tyrion would never voice it outloud. It would make it real, but he refused. The slight that the Archonate of Tyrosh and Magister Sarrios had levied on him was not something he would forgive so long as he still drew breath.

Accepting defeat meant giving up, and Tyrion would never give up until the damned city burned and its greedy fat magisters were all either dead or squealing for mercy at his feet. His work, gold, and men were taken from him, not because he misstepped, angered, or challenged something, but because he was convenient. Because he was just a dwarf and easy to deal away with, just because he was a Lannister. 

If anyone could look at his piteous appearance, they would laugh and call him delusional, but Tyrion Lannister was not one to give up.

Yet things changed that night. Lydden was already snoring, and just as Tyrion was also drifting into his sweet dreams of revenge, a faint echo called for him.

It was so quiet that he could barely catch the noise, but his hearing had grown sharper in the darkness. It was not time for food, yet the rhythm thump slowly echoed closer and closer until it stopped. As Tyrion wondered if the darkness had scrambled his wits, the lock cracked open with a rusty click, and he was blinded.

"Lord Lannister," he knew that voice. It took him a few moments to blink away the lantern's brightness, and thousands of questions arose in his mind as he saw the familiar face of Lothor Brune, clad as a Tyroshi guardsman, holding a hefty keyring. "I have come to rescue you."