XX: Tyrion Lannister Sticks to his Guns

Noho Dimittis was a severe and dour Braavosi, and Tyrion found his pinched face a bit amusing. Not that he said as much to him. He didn't need to make things worse.

As Acting Hand of the King, he was expected to do what he could for King's Landing. His father was holed up in Casterly Rock, and had said nothing but to continue doing his job. So do his job he did, as he sat in the chair opposite the representative of the Iron Bank in his office.

"As said, Lord Tyrion, such a request is unusual," Noho said patiently. "I am not a military man, I am simply a banker. And King's Landing is in enough trouble as it is."

"Yes, I am aware," Tyrion sighed. "I got a fair amount out of Petyr Baelish... Not all of it, of course. One never can get the whole truth out of him. But the fact of the matter is, Braavos has been extremely quiet to King's Landing ever since this war began."

Noho shrugged. "I do not set government policy, my lord Hand. I merely carry out my duties."

"As do we all, as do we all," Tyrion said with a nod, "but that does not change the fact that the punishments for espionage are much the same in both our countries." Tyrion swished his wine around in his goblet, and looked up at Noho. The banker trembled a bit, but gave nothing else away.

"Whatever do you mean?" He asked politely. "I am merely a humble banker-"

"Who has conducted business with the Silver Bank of the North on more than one occasion," Tyrion said. "Indeed! Meeting with a few representatives in this very city!"

Noho shook his head. "Those were simple business transactions-!"

"That the Queen Regent has saw fit to declare 'illegal and worthy of treason'," Tyrion said. "It's a short step from espionage, you understand my dear banker." Tyrion sipped his wine, as the banker shuddered. "And you've presumably seen what this King has done to those he considers spies and traitors."

"He would not dare risk his business with Braavos!" Noho said. "We hold such enormous debt from the Crown-It would be suicide-!"

"Yes, yes, financial ruin and the like," Tyrion said, waving his hands. "I daresay the rest of the Kingdom hasn't been getting along terribly well since this war began, either. While Petyr Baelish didn't get much footing in the North, he was still profiting from the trade..." Tyrion finished his glass. "And you in particular, as I recall. Or did those trade ships under your control, but under different names, just appear out of thin air?"

Tyrion looked upon the man who began to tremble again. "I do believe," Tyrion said, looking up at the ceiling with a thoughtful look, "such embezzlement is punished by several years in jail under Braavosian law, is it not?"

"... What do you want?" Noho asked, defeated. Tyrion smiled, and poured the banker another goblet of wine.

"Why... For some of the same courtesy you grant the North, of course. Some supplies, some schematics-"

"Gunpowder?" Asked Noho in disbelief. "You really think you can change the course of this war if I bring you some gunpowder?" He shook his head. "The North is winning, in case you hadn't noticed, little Lord! Even if I could deliver you a thousand barrels of the stuff, it wouldn't change facts!"

"You're quite right," Tyrion said, "it wouldn't change things with the North at all... But I'm not planning on using it against the North." He glanced at the banker with a grim smile. He was going to use it against the Stormlands... And then use them against the North.

What else could he do? What could any of them do?

Omake - Tyrion and the Pyromancer's Horrifically Awesome Invention

Tyrion Lannister had seen things that had scared him before.

The view from one of the Vales 'Sky Cells' for example - during which he had made a mental note to have another talk with the clever young Theon if he ever saw him again about those 'parachutes' he had demonstrated at Winterfell and his insistence that he would -eventually- perfect it to allow something called 'base jumping' from The Wall that sounded terribly suicidal to him ... but only seemed to light a gleam in the eyes of the young Arya Stark.

There was also the time he had found himself alone with Bron facing a number of hill tribe warriors determined to kill him, with only his rapid assurances of weapons and equipment to take back to the Vale staying their hands. Too bad they had mostly died trying to charge down one of the Boltons 'Bolters'.

And of course, the look on his Fathers face when he had been told about Tysha ... well ...

But he had never quite felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in this way before as he looked into the perhaps not quite sane eyes of Hallyne the Pyromancer.

"You ... have combined gunpowder with wildfire?"

The 'have you lost your fucking mind' went unsaid but was well carried by his eyes, he thought.

"Yes yes my Lord!" the madman grinned. "Is it not wondrous!?" the other said, holding up what appeared to be a ceramic pot quite similar to the 'grenades' used by the North to such grim and grisly effect these days, indeed with much the same sort of fuse attached to it. And every time the man moved the little ball around, Tyrion felt a year of his life drain away - but he dared not try to reach out and stop the man lest he misjudge ... and kill them all.

"I suppose, in the same way that a Dragon would be wondrous to a man standing in front of it, before it decides it wants a quick hot meal" he replied dryly.

"Fear not my Lord, you are quite safe" the other laughed ... and Tyions heart simply stopped then as the man suddenly drive the clay pot down into the table in front of him with an almighty crack.

Tyrion existed for an unknown amount of time in that horrible moment, brought out of it by a strangled noise he had never heard Bron make before in his life.

"As you see!" the insane Pyromancer smiled at their reactions, "this is perfectly stable!"

But you are not Tyrion thought as he somehow kept his cool and prevented himself from destroying his very expensive pants in a moment of pure bowel clenching terror. "Very well, explain this to me"

"Oh it is quite amazing My Lord. Based on the work of Theon The Clever in the North - such a remarkable talent for fire and flame! It has taken some ...experimentation... but a mixture of five measures wildfire and ninety five measures of a mixture of gunpowder and what Lord Greyjoy calls 'stabilizing agents' filled into this clay pot no larger than this. When this fuse reaches its limit, the gunpowder is set off like a normal 'grenade' but for this device, oh yes, the explosion is sufficient to ignite the Substance that has soaked through it all. The force of the explosion also throws the burning mixture out, adhering to anything and burning ... burning! Melting wood, stone... even steel... and, of course, flesh!. Oh how it melts flesh!"

Tyrion was not sure what was worse at that moment. The fact that this man was in charge of the most dangerous weapon in all of Westeros ... or the fact that he needed to rely on said man. Said man busy looking almost like he was having a religious experience as he described the effects Wildfire had on everything as he all but ... petted ... the clay ball.

Omake – Shit and Fire both flow.

King's Landing, 299 AC

Bron snorted as he and Tyrion watched barrels of explosives being stacked. "Nice little pile of doom, m'lord. Just got one question."

"I'm sure you've got a lot more than one, Bron, but let's deal with what's most pressing on your mind," sighed Tyrion.

"Alright. You'vwe got all this lovely black powder, ready to blow up like the Doom of Valyria all over again. Thing is, it don't do you much good sitting here. How exactly are you planning on hurting Stannis with it?"

Tyrion nodded. "Bron, my mercenary friend, you make an excellent point. We have the weapon, but what we need is ..." he frowned. What was that phrase Theon used in Winterfell? Aha! "A delivery system."

"Oh," said Bron in sudden understanding. "You'll mail it to Stannis, and set it to blow up when he opens the parcel?"

Tyrion blinked. "What? No, you fool. What I mean is, the Northerners have their thunderers: cannon, Theon calls them. He uses them to propell balls of iron at our troops, sometimes hollow balls packed with more powder, set alight to explode amonst our forces. We need our own cannon, to shatter Stannis' armies and ships far beyond the walls."

"Okay, that makes sense. Now, where, exactly, are we gonna get some of Theon bloody Greyjoy's toys?"

"Yes, yes, he's unlikely to sell us any, even if we could get ships north in time to purchase them, and if Father has captured any of a decent size, he's not told me about it ... and wouldn't send them if he had." He ran his fingers through his lank, blonde hair. "Right, what exactly is a cannon? It's a tube of metal, closed at one end. You shove powder and an iron ball down the tube, light the other end, and run for your life."

"Wonderful. Now, how are you gonna go about making those marvelous tubes, since you've got all the metalworkers in the city making your great bloody chain for the harbour?"

"I know, I know, I'm thinking! There's got to be something here we can ..." Tyrion blinked. Long tubes of metal ... his mind flashed back to his first, official post at Casterly Rock. "Quick, Bron! We need to get to the sewers!"

"Why?" asked Bron, trudging after his short employer. "Do you really need to shit that bad?"

***

Workers pressed into service had no idea why, when the city was preparing for a siege, the acting Hand wanted as much copper and lead piping ripped up from the city's delapidated sewer system. They didn't care: they were being paid (mostly in rations) and weren't being issued swords and shoved onto the walls. They just wanted all the high folk to call the whole thing off, and take their armies home, prefereably far away. Since they weren't about to get that wish granted, they focused on doing as they were told.

Omake: Winter Still

Kevan

There were times Kevan enjoyed being at his brothers side. This was not one of them. He breathed deep before knocking on the door to Tywin's solar.

"Enter."

He stepped through and noticed Tywin thumbing through The History of the Greater and Lesser Houses.

"Good reading brother?"

Tywin looked up. "Necessary. I'm cross referencing what we know about northern production with this list."

"For what purpose?" Kevan took his seat as his brother motioned for the cupbearer girl to bring him wine.

"If we can co-ordinate with the Greyjoys, we might be able to smash their ability to make these weapons. If we do, eventually, the North will run out of supplies. We outnumber them -"

"You mean to flood them with soldiers, send so many peasants their way that even if they kill a hundred thousand they'll end up exhausted."

Tywin nodded. "Despite their recent advances the fact remains that the North is simply poorer than the south. Most of it is cold and barren, it just can't feed as many people as we can. Once their factories are destroyed, we'll be able to fight them in a manner of our choosing and then we will destroy them for this insult."

They were silent for a few moments, save for the sound of the girl shuffling and Tywin flicking the pages of his book.

"Brother. This won't work."

Hard eyes jumped at him, the way Kevan knew they would. He continued regardless.

"It requires too many moving parts. There are too many unknowns, too many things we need to go perfectly. Not to mention even as we speak the Greyjoys are being pushed back from the North; and their current heir is the man largely responsible for the North's victories."

The girl stood still, a silent witness to history. I wonder if she'll tell her children about this. Kevan thought.

"And what would you have me do?" Tywin whispered, hissed almost.

"Peace."

"Peace." his brother spat.

"Peace. Let Robb Stark keep the trident and everything North. Let us focus our attention on Stannis and Renly."

Tywin stood and stared out the window, hands clasped behind his back. "You would have my grandson be King of half a kingdom."

"For a time. Through Winter and most of Spring. While we defeat the Baratheon brothers, and while we begin production of our own thunderarms. We can hire braavosi immigrants from the North to teach us how to set up workshops, and I'm certain that we can hire soldiers to teach us how to train our troops in warfare of this kind. Let Robb Stark be King of Winter, when Summer comes, the Seven Kingdoms will be whole again."

"And what will our Bannermen say? What will the Tyrells, the Stormlanders, the Dornish say? Catelyn Stark took my son hostage, Eddard attempted a coup, and now his son has conquered half the Realm. In light of that, what's to stop any of the rest from simply declaring their independence or worse, kneeling to the Young Wolf? If I cannot protect my family, if I cannot ensure their inheritance, why in the name of the Gods should anyone follow me?"

Kevan swallowed. "Those are legitimate points my lord. But the fact remains, we cannot win this war. And you have to ask yourself what matters more: winning, or your pride?"

Tywin turned, green eyes burning with hate. He dropped his head, closed his eyes, and spoke.

"Girl. Fetch the maester."

Omake - Aftermath of King's Landing and Stannis loses another Venture

299 AC, Dragonstone

Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, King in the Narrow Sea, King of the Painted Table, and Azor Ahai Come Again looked up from where he sat, staring at the ornate table in front of him, shaped into the form of the Kingdoms he should be ruling. Since the devastation of both his naval and land forces in the ill-fated assault on King's Landing, there seemed to be little else to do. Ser Davos Seaworth, his Hand and trusted advisor, stood nearby, almost radiating his worry and concern for his soverign, but Stannis was in no mood for conversation.

I was close, so close to victory. And then that damned Lannister Imp sprung his traps, burning my ships, shattering my army. He could still feel the horror of leading the amphibious assault, watching his men be felled by invisable bullets, blown apart by tiny bombs dropped from the ramparts above, shredded by the shotguns of the Imp's sally force. Still, he could have pushed through, could have won ... if Tywin's sellsword levies hadn't arrived to drive off his demoralised and disorganised forces.

So, he returned to what had become his home ... or perhaps, his haunt, as though he were only the ghost of the king he had been before. Ser Davos still believes. Melisandre, as well. The rest ... What few loyal forces had retreated with him, most were still in shock, but already there was grumbling, the men losing heart in their cause.

A commotion at the door drew him from his brooding. Rising from his seat, he gestured for the doors to be opened, and his men-at-arms entered, prodding a man before them who smelt like the sea. "Your Grace, this man's ship docked at the harbor three hours ago, and came ashore with a party of men," reported the senior knight. "When our officers investigated, we learned he was a Northman, as were his crew. He claims to be here to trade."

"Aye, and that's what a trader does, mate," the sailor insisted, only to be cuffed about the head by the man to his left. "Hey!"

"You speak to Stannis, First of His Name, the True King of Westeros! Speak with respect and reverence!"

He snorted. "Far as I care, there's only one King that matters a damn, and that's Robb Stark, King in the North!"

The guard snarled, raising a mailed fist to strike again, but Stannis raised a hand to stop him. "Can't get sense out of a senseless man, Ser Caran." As the knight bowed his head in aknowlagement, Stannis stepped forward and met the ship's captain's glare. "Robb Stark is a rebel and a traitor. King Robert was my elder brother, his wife bore him bastards sired by her brother: I am his heir, and by law and custom ruler of the Seven Kingdoms. The Stark boy will bend the knee, soon enough." Despite his recent setbacks, he still believed that. Had to believe that. The captain continued to glare, but didn't respond, aside from a mild snort. "You claim to be a trader: what's your business?"

The sailor straightened up. "I'm Alfred Farrows, master of the Venture, out of White Harbour. Lord Greyjoy put a call out for more obsidian, as much as he can get, and offering good silver for it, too."

"Balon Greyjoy is another traitor and pretender," snapped Stannis, and Farrows shrugged.

"So? It's young Theon I'm talking about. Anyway, I've been on the White Harbour-Dragonstone run for a few years now, mostly trading in machine tools, lathes, threshers, power looms and the like for your black glass. No idea what the Greyjoy wants it for, but like I said, he pays." His expressiong grew sharper. "Since the word is you're fighting the Lannisters, I've got a cargo of finished goods to trade for the stuff, such as king at war might need: swords, breastplates, helmets, wool cloaks and tunics, boots, canned food and canteens. A few crates of muskets and shotguns, too, along with some kegs of black powder and moulds for ammunition. Thought we could strike up a deal."

Stannis met his gaze for a moment, then sighed. "You're right: I do need all that you named. Unfortunately," he said seriously, "I also require your ship, and the services of your crew." He hated the thought of just impressing the poor merchant, but after his losses ... he needed every ship, every sword, even every thunderer, if the Northerner was being honest about his cargo. Besides: he's a traitor, serving a rebel. His ship is forfeit anyway: he should be grateful I'm willing to allow him to continue to sail it ... with a proper guard of Royal troops on board, of course ...

"You'll be compensated after the war," added Ser Davos, "But until then, we'll have to impress your crew and take your ship and her cargo into our service. If you swear to serve your rightful king with honour, His Grace will reward you after his victory."

Farrow's eyes widened in shock. "Hey, now, there's no ... you haven't got the right!"

"He is Azor Ahai," came the serene tones of Melisandre as she entered the room, her red hair flowing down her back, a few shades darker than her dress. "He has every right to command: you are bound to obey." She glided across the floor. "All that matters is the choice: do you serve the Light, or the Dark? The warm glow of the flames, or the endless cold of the shadows?"

Farrow snorted. "You're that Red God priestess, ain't you?" He grinned savagly. "Hot or cold? Lady, I'm from the North: the cold is where we live! And fire?" His grin grew wider. "We made fire our bitch!"

Before the guards could strike him, there was the sound of thunder from the harbour ... then again. Stannis frowned. "What was that?"

The Northman laughed. "That was probably your men trying to take command of the Venture ... and my first officer giving his reply. She may be just a merchant carrack, but my lady carries an even dozen twenty-six pound carronades: sounds like your men got the ol' whif of grapeshot," he said with the air of a man quoting another. "You think I'd sail an unarmed ship into these waters, what with the pirate scum you've got working for you? Guess that answers the question as to whether or not it's worth trying to trade with you lot: by the time they get home, they'll have spread the word that the stag's got as much honor as the lion - agh!" He fell to one knee, a spearbutt slamming into his kidney.

"Another traitor: a pity," said Melisandre. "You will discover the true wages of betraying your God and your king: such as you deserve to be given to the fire."

"Guess it's your Targ blood," gasped Farrow, "Enjoy burning folk like mad ol' Aerys? Last time a king did that to a Northman, bastard lost his -" he fell as a knight smashed him to floor with a steel gauntlet.

In the distance, far below and increasingly out to sea, the Venture sailed off, her speed increasing as she shook out more sail, her gunports continuing to speak in flame and smoke, smashing aside any Royal Navy forces that tried to halt her as she fought her way to the open sea and freedom.

It would be a long time before any more Northern trade vessels tried docking at Dragonstone.