FOREWORD

I have to confess, I only got into A Song of Ice and Fire relatively recently, shortly after its television adaptation, Game of Thrones, started. And while I have been tempted to do a fanfic, the truth is, the franchise has too intricate and complex a story for me to consider doing one. But perhaps I could take a character out of that world, and put them into another franchise?

I noticed that there was no crossover to date between A Song of Ice and Fire (or Game of Thrones) and Black Lagoon. Now, this is understandable, considering that these are concepts that don't immediately mesh. And yet, through an admittedly-contrived concept, I intend to have Tyrion Lannister end up in Roanapur. Yes, you heard that correctly. A post-A Storm of Swords Tyrion, for that matter. Not as a crime boss, though. I didn't think that'd suit him. But as an information broker…yes.

I originally considered doing a full story, but decided I may not have the wherewithal to do one, so I decided to make this a one-shot, with a possibility of expanding it into a full fic later.

Anyway, time for the usual disclaimers. Firstly, there will be spoilers for both A Song of Ice and Fire (and with it, Game of Thrones) and Black Lagoon.

Secondly, there will be heavy annotations, as is usual for my works. You have been warned.

Thirdly, this is an M-Rated work. There will be coarse language, violence, dark themes and sexual references. Again, you have been warned.

Finally, the following is a fan-written work. A Song of Ice and Fire and Black Lagoon are the properties of their respective owners. Please support the official release. Otherwise, Balalaika will have someone snipe you from afar…

ROANAPUR'S IMP

"Rock, I need you to go and take something to the Imp."

Rokuro 'Rock' Okajima blinked in bemusement at Dutch's request. As the new recruit to the Lagoon Company (initially unwilling, until his boss at Asahi tried to sacrifice him to preserve Asahi's reputation), he knew he still had a lot to learn about his new workplace, his colleagues, and the place they worked and lived in. Said place being Roanapur, a Thai city that was a minor byword for crime and infamy.

As for the Lagoon Company…well, there was Dutch, the leader, a big and burly black man with no hair on his head, save for his eyebrows and beard. He was a calm, cool and collected man, but there was no doubt that if you crossed him, you would regret it. There was Revy, known around town as 'Two-Hands', a beautiful but lethal Chinese-American with a violent temper and preternatural skill with a handgun in each hand, hence her nickname. And then there was Benny, a hacker and mechanic, easy-going, but tainted by their lifestyle into a kind of cheerful apathy.

He had only been here for a few days, so understandably, he was still learning the ropes. Dutch felt that, if Rock had any actual role in the Lagoon Company, it was mostly to negotiate, to be the one holding the carrot before Dutch and Revy pulled out the sticks. Dutch had pretty good reserves of diplomacy, true, but he recognised Rock for that much, especially as Rock knew a lot of languages.

He was also an errand boy, pretty much. He did the groceries shopping, for example, or took messages to places when the phone wouldn't do. He wasn't yet trusted enough to take money around, though that was less to do with them being worried about him stealing it, and more to do with the fact he might get mugged on the way. That was Dutch's blunt explanation, with Revy salting the wound by saying he was still a bit of a pussy, that plan involving the torpedo and helicopter aside.

"So, who's the Imp?" Rock asked, wondering if he would regret the answer. "And why would anyone call themselves that?"

Revy snorted from where she sprawled on the couch, wearing little more than a tank top and daisy dukes, a tattoo on her shoulder. Her dark hair framed beautiful features, hardened by whatever life she had gone through beforehand. "People shouldn't get too nosy in this town, Rock. Good rule to live by."

"That being said, it doesn't hurt to know some of the key players," Dutch said in his bass rumble. "You've met Balalaika, head of Hotel Moscow, aka the local Russian mafiya. Maybe I should give you a quick lesson on the key players, but later. The Imp's what we call an information broker. He buys and sells information from a network of informants, locally and worldwide. About a year ago, after a typhoon hit Roanapur, he ends up washed up at our own docks, clinging to wood. In fact, what seems like part of a shipwreck turns up, only, it's old-fashioned, like something out of the Middle Ages. So were his clothes."

"He also looked like something the cat dragged in and pissed all over," Revy remarked. "He was no oil-painting to begin with, I'll bet, but he looked like he had a run-in with Shenhua or some other knife nut. Big scar across his face, a good chunk of his nose gone…then again, maybe he was from some Renaissance Fair or something, and they got a bit too carried away with the sword fighting. Little bastard was delirious. I think he was some medieval re-enactor who just went nuts and thought he was in some fantasy medieval world. Kept on going on about these people with weird names."

"Anyway, once he had recovered, he ended up with the Rip-Off Church for a time, but eventually left, and became an independent operator," Dutch said. "He mostly does work for Chang, the leader of the local Triads, and Balalaika, but anyone can do business with him if the price is right. He makes his office at the UG Pork meatpackers, along with one of the local cleaners, Sawyer."

"Cleaner?" Rock asked.

"They clean up the mess after killings happen. Sometimes, they're given people like snitches and thieves to torture and kill to send a message," Revy said. "Sawyer's pretty infamous as being one of the best. I heard he uses a chainsaw. Or she. Nobody's seen Sawyer without surgical scrubs on, except maybe the Imp, and probably Chang."

Dutch nodded. "Like the Imp, Sawyer's an independent operator, but she was sponsored by Chang."

"She?" Revy asked.

Dutch nodded again. "I've been there to ask the Imp for information in person, for stuff you can't say over the phone. Sawyer's a woman. I saw her out of her scrubs once. She's rather shy for various reasons. But she's not someone you'd want to cross, and neither is the Imp. He's a dwarf, and you'd think someone like him would hate a name like 'the Imp', but apparently he took an insult from back home, and turned it around, wearing it like a badge of honour. But one time, after leaving Rowan's strip club, he came across one of the clients who had been kicked out for getting too gropey, trying to rape one of the dancers. He had only just met Sawyer at the time, but word is that he beat the man within an inch of his life, and then dragged him to Sawyer. Word has it that the Imp participated in taking the man apart himself. He may be small, but he's no slouch when it comes to fighting, and if you piss him off, there are few people who can match him in his ruthlessness."

"Most people around here kill people," Revy remarked. "I heard about what the Imp did to one person stupid enough to try to hurt him through other means. He destroyed him. All without killing him. He could have been the head of a gang if he wanted to. But he said something about how the game of thrones is for fools. Apparently Chang and Balalaika laughed at that, saying it was too true."

"Anyway, Rock, during our last job, I got a few documents that, while our usual clients aren't interested in, might be of interest to someone else, so we're giving them to the Imp. His real name is Lannister. He calls himself 'Tyrion', but everyone says his name is Tyrone. Bring the documents to him. He might inveigle you for a chat, but don't linger too long…"

UG Pork was a forbidding-looking place, but Rock guessed that a meatpacker's couldn't look like a theme park. He rapped on the door. About a minute later, the door opened, and a young woman with dull, dead eyes and a shock of black hair, dressed in goth fashion, opened the door. She pressed a rod-like device to her throat, which he realised was badly scarred, as if someone had tried to cut it. When she spoke, her voice was an eerie rasping monotone, imparted by what had to be an electrolarynx. "What do you want?"

"I'm Rock, from the Lagoon Company?" Rock asked, nervous. "Dutch wanted me to bring some documents to Mr Lannister?"

She looked him up and down. Certainly his white suit shirt, necktie and dark trousers, a remnant of his salaryman days, would be a little out of place in Roanapur. She then gestured for him to follow her. As he did so, he asked, "Excuse me, but are you Sawyer?"

"Yes," she rasped. "You are new to this town. But Balalaika spoke of you already. You managed to formulate a plan to destroy the Extra Order helicopter gunship with the torpedo on the Black Lagoon. That is…impressive."

"Thanks, but…well, we had little choice. I'm still amazed we got out of that intact."

"Good luck does not last forever, but it is impressive all the same," Sawyer remarked. They came to an office door. "He's in there, waiting." And with that, she walked away.

Rock walked in, closing the door behind him, to find an office, a fairly well-appointed one, lined with what looked like prints of the great artworks of the Renaissance lining the wall. So too were bookshelves, filled with many a book on many subjects. The desk was large and thick, apparently made of mahogany, with a top-of-the-line computer.

And seated behind the desk was what had to be the Imp.

He was certainly a dwarf. Rock estimated he was about four foot five(1), presumably seated on some chair customised for him. His blonde hair framed a badly deformed and scarred face, his nose almost gone. His eyes were mismatched, one green, the other black. His features, even without the marks inflicted on him by nature and life, seemed rather careworn.

He also seemed set on ignoring Rock, apparently engrossed in something on his computer. What felt like several minutes passed, before finally, the Imp spoke, his voice surprisingly deep and resonant, eloquent and cultured, his accent vaguely British. "You have a better temper than most in this city. You didn't even so much as clear your throat. Revy would have had a gun in my face by now, but then again, that is her default reaction to anything that rouses her temper. I suppose part of it is due to your former career, Mr Okajima. Corporations have an obsession with hierarchy, and deference is required if not demanded by those above you, with Japan being an egregious case. Not so different from the feudal system, actually. Then again, the same could be said about many other systems with a hierarchy. They demand you know your place, and more often than not, to stay in that place."

"Mr Lannister, I…"

"If you are going to refrain from calling me the Imp," the dwarf said, "then you may call me Tyrion. I refuse to go by 'Mr' Lannister. It makes me sound respectable. Would you prefer Rokuro or Rock?"

"Uh, Rock will do fine, thank you, Tyrion."

"Excellent. Now, I believe Dutch sent you here on an errand."

Silently, Rock handed over the documents, which were in a folder. Tyrion opened it up, and looked them over critically. As he did so, he said, "You'll forgive my ignoring you when you first arrived. I tend to do it as a test of character. More than a few lose their temper rather quickly. But you are patient, and surprisingly, that makes you rather more dangerous, Rock. Patient and calm men and women are amongst the most dangerous, because they consider things carefully before acting, and when they do act, it can be so decisively that people would stand in awe."

"I'm not dangerous," Rock muttered.

"Given what Balalaika told me when you came up with the plan to destroy Extra Order's helicopter gunship, I beg to differ. There are different types of dangerous. Look at Balalaika. Burn scars aside, she was very pleasant to you, and indeed to your former employers at Asahi, despite their reneging on the original deal and trying to kill you. She is intelligent and very genial. But if her wrath is ever roused, then may whatever god or gods exists help you, because nobody else can. She would make the wrath of a dragon look tame by comparison." He finished reading the documents, and nodded. "They seem to be in good order. I will send payment to Dutch soon. He'll probably need it to help with the repairs to the Black Lagoon. I hope to see you again soon, Rock. And who knows? Even someone like you may be able to survive, and even thrive, in Roanapur. I wish you the best of luck."

After Rock had left, Tyrion Lannister contemplated the young man. There were some elements of Rock that put him in mind of Podrick Payne, his squire, and some elements of Jon Snow, and even himself. That mix of nervousness, an eagerness, no, a hunger to prove himself, hiding behind a quite façade.

Of course, Rock was none of those people. And Tyrion should have known better than to project people from the past onto those in the now. He had left that life behind, and while he hadn't expected to go further afield than Pentos, in a way, he was grateful for that strange storm.

Even now, it was something of a blur, like a half-remembered dream. The ship to Pentos being caught in a sudden storm. A maelstrom that caused the ship to break up. Tyrion, clinging desperately to a plank as he was tossed hither and thither. He thought he hallucinated strange lights as he swirled into the abyss. Like a vortex of light. He wondered if some witch retained by his sister, Cersei, had somehow managed to conjure up some sort of witchcraft to pay him back for killing her son (which he didn't do, though he wished he did) and his father (which he did, along with Shae, though Shae wouldn't count in Cersei's eyes). Or maybe the Seven or some other capricious deity or deities decided to punish him for being a kinslayer. As if they hadn't punished him enough for being born.

And then, he was washing up on a strange shore, in a strange land, with technology far different to that he knew of in Westeros and Essos. A land that was but a small corner of what turned out to be a whole new world. A world where the seasons only lasted months, and were more regular, almost like clockwork. A world where magic was a thing of stories, and was both poorer and richer for it.

Roanapur was but a small corner of this world. It was certainly one of the more infested with vice and darkness. But after a shaky beginning, and being brought up to speed (though that Eda woman from the Rip-Off Church seemed to be unusually interested in Tyrion and his history), Tyrion had found a niche. Admittedly, it would have been seen by his father as unbecoming of being a Lannister, but Tyrion had finally shut the door on caring about what his father thought when Tywin wanted him dead…and Tyrion putting a crossbow bolt into his guts.

He could not get the revenge he wanted on all of his family now. Cersei was doubtless still making a mess of things in King's Landing, and Jaime…well, if Jaime hadn't lied to him about Tysha, then Tyrion wouldn't have lied about murdering Joffrey. He deserved the pain, in that much if nothing else. But at least Jaime had tried to be there for him. But Cersei, he wanted to suffer more.

But it was a moot point now. He was gone from that world, and free from the shackles of his family forever. Here, on Earth, dwarves weren't viewed always as objects of fear, hatred or contempt. He could, in theory, rise in power with his own wits and knowledge. He had been a fast learner, and he knew how society worked. All that differed were details, as human nature worked the same here as it did back home.

But he also knew a game of thrones of sorts happened in Roanapur, between the various crime bosses. He wanted no part of the game, not as an active participant clambering for power and prestige. He had played the game once, and had been burnt for his troubles. But he also knew that he needed to have some sort of power, as protection. He remembered Varys and Littlefinger, with their information networks. And while he refused to become as manipulative as they were, he also knew that information had value. And he knew how to get it.

What was more, he found himself lucky in love at long last. He recalled a remark he had made to Robb Stark after providing Bran with a saddle to allow him to ride after being paralysed. "I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things," he had said. Perhaps that was what was missing.

Tysha had been torn away from him by his father's cruelty. Shae had betrayed him and slept with Tywin. Sansa had kept him at arm's length, by mutual agreement. He wondered what people would have made of his current paramour, Frederica Sawyer, known locally as Sawyer the Cleaner. They couldn't have been more shocked unless he somehow managed to marry Brienne of Tarth, he wagered.

Sawyer was no prostitute. He doubted any brothel would take her, what with those scars. She was older than she seemed, maybe 24 years old, a little behind his 28. Their relationship had only recently become physical, but by then, it had been cemented. Sawyer was a disturbed woman who probably would have fit in with the Boltons if she felt so inclined, but despite her proclivities and her skill with a chainsaw, not to mention his prior experiences with women he had fallen for, Tyrion had found himself growing fond of her, partly because of the aforementioned tender spot for the broken. And eventually, it grew into love. A strange love to be sure, but love none the less.

His life wasn't perfect by any means: Roanapur was still a hard and harsh city to live in. There was always the possibility of violent death. But then again, the same could be said about Westeros and King's Landing. Roanapur was just a bit more honest about it, perversely enough. And he had carved out a niche here, a niche that allowed him to live fairly comfortably. Doubtless his father or his sister would have sneered in contempt, but he didn't give a fuck. His father died on the toilet, his bowels voiding excrement rather than the gold he was said to in japes, and his sister was on a course to self-destruct messily. And they were an entire world away.

All might not be right with the world, but Tyrion Lannister had his own life, and he was going to make sure it stayed that way…

THE END

STORY ANNOTATIONS:

So, there you have it. Tyrion Lannister is in Roanapur (albeit by somewhat contrived means), and he's got himself Sawyer as a lover.

Now, he was admittedly in a pretty bad way after the events of A Storm of Swords. But a year living a relatively more peaceful life in Roanapur has helped him heal a little, as has getting a fresh start. He's still bitter and cynical, but he's a little closer to how he was at the beginning of A Game of Thrones now. I view him now as being a mixture of his old self, and a little bit of Varys, in that he gives advice and gets people to think, even if he's less enigmatic than Varys. And still has his cojones intact.

I can't help but hear Peter Dinklage as I write his dialogue. Brilliant actor.

1. I don't know whether Tyrion has an official height, so I used Peter Dinklage's height.