So here's another vignette in the Wanderer series. Thanks for reading!

And a big thank you to my wonderful beta MrsTater...

Darkness

The Eyrie, King's Landing, Meereen…

Wherever Tyrion traveled, he seemed to end up in the same uncomfortable place.

A cell.

A dark, damp, and smelly cell.

In Westeros and in Essos, those places were the same. The former occupants' presences always welcomed the new prisoner and never left him for the entire duration of his stay in the cell, and even beyond. The thin fresh layer of straw the jailers scattered on the floor did not suffice to cover the acrid smell that impregnated the cell, occupant after occupant, prisoner after prisoner.

Blood. Sweat. Piss. Shit. Fear.

On the walls, once you got used to the darkness, you could decipher the awkward drawings engraved in the stone, makeshift calendars to keep count of the passing days, insults and prayers, cherished names and hated ones, licentious figures and sacred icons…

As Tyrion had learnt in the sky cell of the Eyrie – not a dark and dank place, but such a more frightening one – or in the depths of King's Landing, passing time and forced isolation rapidly became unbearable for the prisoner.

His worst enemy.

Being forced into a cage alone with your thoughts and ghosts often opened the path to madness. In the Eyrie, Tyrion would have done anything to escape from the isolation – and the constant threat of a deathly fall. In King's Landing, in the depth of the Red Keep, pure, unadulterated dread had been his constant, unforgiving companion until the day of the trial, and beyond.

How could he get out of this situation alive?

Would his Lord father agree with Cersei's madness?

Was there a way to prove he had not killed his nephew?

Who had killed Joffrey?

Would he die alone and abandoned?

The questions had danced in his mind, and some still were, many months and leagues later. Some questions had found their answer and their power over Tyrion had faded, only to be replaced by new, stronger obsessions.

Would he see the shores of Westeros again?

Would he be able to get his revenge on Cersei?

Where did whores go?

Tyrion sighed, exasperated by this recurring line of thought. He had traveled across the world, from Westeros to Essos, from Blackwater Bay to Slavers' Bay, most of time drunk, sometimes sober, hidden in a barrel, free to move on a ship, bound and thrown behind a saddle. He had met many new people, discovered conspiracies and saw a dragon. He had saved his skin and others' skins from death and slavery, yet his father's voice resumed to resonate in his head the second the Ironborn's rough hands had pushed him into his cell. Would his fathers' ghost haunt him to the end of his days? A dark voice whispered that, considering the current situation, such haunting would not last very long…

In the neighboring cells, Tyrion could hear Ser Barristan's incessant pacing. The old knight was not very used to being held prisoner. An ironic smile formed on the dwarf's lips. That was probably the first time in his existence that Barristan the Bold was confined in a place for thieves and murderers and traitors. In the distance, moans of pain betrayed Naharis' agony. If their stay in the depths of Meereen lasted more than a week, the blue haired sellsword would be done for. They had barely spent a day and a half in their prison and the smell of corrupting flesh already reached Tyrion's nostrils.

Suddenly, images of Jaime with his golden hand assaulted the dwarf's mind. Had his brother moaned and cried as he nursed a gangrened stump? It was a difficult idea to accept when one had spent their youth admiring their elder's prowess with a sword, lance or lance. Did the moaning come from the pain or from the loss of the sword hand, from the loss of what defined those warriors once?

Once more, Tyrion shook his head. Dwelling in the past, letting thoughts of his family invade his mind would do no good to his current situation. Think, he had to think of a way out. Dying here in Meereen at the hand of Victarion Greyjoy was simply unconceivable.

"Mormont?" he whispered in the dark tentatively. He knew the big knight had been thrown into the nearest cell. "Mormont!" he repeated louder.

No answer.

Worry crept into Tyrion's thoughts. The knight had remained quite silent ever since Greyjoy had appeared riding the golden dragon. The damned horn seemed to have afflicted the warg a great deal. What if he was still afflicted? The dwarf could not lose his now most precious pawn.

His best ally.

"Mormont!" he kept on calling, gripping the iron bars, trying to get a look in the dark corridor.

"Enough, Imp! Keep quiet!"

Brown Ben's angry snarl resounded, harsh as a lash.

Tyrion's plan had backfired, and he could guess in the sellsword's tone that the captain would get his revenge as soon as he could. However, for now, in these cells, Ben's threats were of little importance.

"Mormont!"

Had this sudden return to prison – to a cage of some sort – shattered the knight's all too recent new found fighting spirit? Had Greyjoy's appearance on the dragon's back destroyed the man's last hopes?

A weaker man would be curled up in a ball, leaking his wounds. But Mormont was not that kind of man, was he? He was the Old Bear's son, after all.

He knew the Queen would be back soon better than anyone.

"Mor- ouch!"

Sharp teeth gnawed his toes through his boot. Tyrion looked down angrily to discover a rat attacking the leather with enthusiasm. A bloody, damn rat. After the grey scale and the pale mare, would plague be his next affliction? The dwarf's hand groped around him blindly, searching for any stone, object that could help him to crush the beastie's skull to a pulp. Unexpectedly, his fingers touched something metallic and he almost exclaimed in triumph. Nonetheless, he repressed shout found its way out of his throat the moment when he discovered that his fingers had found a set of keys.

And the rat bit him again, harder, clawing angrily at his stunted leg.

Right. Before everything, give the change.

"Seven hells! I'm going to kill you!" Tyrion shouted, trying to chase the beast away.

Like that, Ser Bear?

The rat disappeared into a hole, into the neighboring cell, and Tyrion smiled. The Old Bear's son still had some fight in him.

"Imp! Shut that mouth of yours!" Mormont growled angrily. His grave, deep voice resonated in the cell, covering the light click of the lock as the dwarf opened it.

Silently, stealthily, Tyrion slipped out from his cell to free his companions.