A/N: Christ, talk about being late. I'm really sorry about the schedule, or lack thereof.

The "Bodyguard"

Drevyn Fisher was not a happy man. Ever since he had been assigned to the "honor" of escorting the Imp to Dorne, it seemed that his life had taken a definite turn for the worse. First, just the idea of sailing to Dorne, Dorne, of all places, filled him with dread. While he was by no means a Northerner, he hated the heat, and he spent many nights awake thinking how he could weasel his way out of his new assignment. Then, to make matters worse, The Spider, yes, the fucking Spider, practically blackmails him into becoming an informant. Perfect. Just perfect.

Drevyn was walking a razor's edge and he knew it. Lean towards one side, and his secret gets out; make his true allegiance too obvious, and he gets a year in the dungeons of the Red Keep, or worse.

This and more went through the hapless bodyguard turned informant's head as he heaved up his insides over the side of the ship. He had wandered out of his cabin to get a breath of air, and somehow it had degenerated into him retching his lungs up. He supposed he should take comfort in the fact that they were nearly there, but then, just the thought of two more days on this fucking ship made him sick all over again. As far as the Imp went, he was surprisingly noncommittal towards the bodyguard. When he made his introductions, Tyrion seemed like he expected him. Indeed, it seemed like The Spider and the Imp were on the same side, for now, or at the least, keeping each other informed. All this mattered little to Drevyn; his goal for the week was to not be killed by an enraged Dornishman.

Drevyn threw down his hand in anger. That was three in a row, and most of his money, besides. He was fairly sure the Dornishman across from him was cheating, but he had two friends by his side, so all he could do was suck it up, or leave. He opted for the former, knowing that if he left he would just sulk in his lodgings. As he was dealt a fourth hand, however, he was interrupted by the Imp's sellsword.

"Lord Tyrion has need of you," he said, his hand on Drevyn's shoulder. Drevyn liked the man, for a sellsword. He was a good drinking partner, if a complete arse otherwise. Throwing down his hand and bidding the three Dornishmen a farewell, Devan rose from the table and began to make his way to the Imp's quarters.

As he opened the door, he saw the Imp waiting for him.

"Ah, Ser Devan, please, have a seat." He said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

Not really seeing a choice in the matter, Devan sat. "You called for me, my lord?" He asked.

"Yes, I did. As it happens, I know why you are here."

Well, shit.

"It was not difficult to guess, you know," the Imp continued, as if reading his mind. "I am not completely without allies, even here."

"And so, we come to the question of what to do with you."

"You're not going to kill me, are you?" Drevyn asked, not wanting to ask but needing to know.

"No, I'm not going to kill you. If you were to die, that would visit suspicion on me, and rightly so, if I were that unsubtle," the Imp replied. Now that you know why you're here, and you know that I know, why don't you go and write a letter to my sweet sister. I trust you would not put anything dangerous in it, would you?"

"Now Drevyn was beginning to see the game taking shape, and he was beginning to fear that he was ending up as just another pawn.

"Of course, my lord," Drevyn said. What else could be said? Refuse, and he was a dead man, and this way he would live longer, if little else.

Oh yes, this week was turning out to be fucking lovely.


As far as pay went, the Imp told Drevyn that he could be counted on to "reimburse" him for his lies. At least he'd spend his last days drunk, Drevyn thought, immediately reprimanding himself for thinking so negatively. He could likely last a week or two, at least. If nothing else, now that his "duties" for the day were discharged, Drevyn planned to hole up in his bunk with a bottle of the cheapest liquor, as well as the cheapest woman, he could find, and try his best to forget that he'd likely be dead in a month.

Of course, the Imp apparently didn't care much for his plans.

"You want me to what?"

"Oh, relax. You act as if I'm sending you to your death."

"You're sending me to kidnap the princess!"

The Imp didn't seem to see that as much of a cause for concern. "I assure you that you'll be fine. My man Bronn will be with you."

That revelation didn't exactly fill Drevyn with confidence.

"I understand that this is not what you signed on for, but that makes it no less important. Name your price, and I'll do my best to answer it."

His price? A lordship and a seat on the royal court was the first thought that came to Drevyn's mind, but he gave it a second thought. From what he could see of King's Landing (which, admittedly, wasn't much,) A job in the court was a cutthroat position, often literally. The last thing he needed was to be impaled on an assassin's blade in the middle of the night because Lord Chucklefuck or whoever decided he wasn't useful enough anymore. With that in mind, he told the Imp that he would be happy with a lordship and some land.

"And you'll have it," he replied, as soon as the job is done."

Drevyn tried not to get his hopes up. If he survived this, then he could live happily for the rest of his days in a proper lord's castle, maybe take a woman to wed, and drink all he could ever want.

Of course, that was a very big if.