Act II

Tyrion woke as he was being dragged. A cloak not his own was wrapped around him, while its hood concealed most of his face. Even though the cloak was a rough-spun dull green which scratched at his cheek as they made their way, Tyrion was glad for its warmth. Autumn had descended, and the air was crisp, with the occasional wisp of winter.

As his legs dragged beneath him, scuffing his kid leather boots, Tyrion realised that he was unbound, but that was of little comfort. The direction they were going towards was the city, and the city meant being a hostage if he were lucky, and dead, if he wasn't. Still, Tyrion thought to himself, better than being burnt alive, or being bled drop by drop.

The figure dragging him was panting with effort. They were nearing the city centre, he noted, not the Red Keep. To an inn, in all probability. At least that was something. There always was an inn open somewhere in the city, whatever the hour, for the odd weary traveller. How long would his reprieve last, he didn't care to think about. He was alive, and that was better than he had expected.

As they walked towards the city centre, the crowd got thicker, and when they turned into the next street, it was as if they had entered a carnival. There were bonfires all around, and the Dornish and the Reachmen were celebrating as one. The taverns were overflowing with custom, and the inns were oddly animated for the time of the night. It would have been a heartening vision of brotherhood beyond differences, if it hadn't also meant his doom.

They stopped at the first inn that seemed to have room. It was one of the quieter ones. A dull inn for dull people, not the kind of place that Tyrion would have patronised under usual circumstances. Some windows on the upper floors were illuminated, and the common room, though full, was not overflowing. When they entered, a large blonde man greeted them.

"A room for the night and some food," said Tyrion's taller companion. The man was slender, wearing a black cloak, with black robes under. The cloak had mud stains on them, while the robes were plain and unornamented, and immensely functional. A practical man, Tyrion thought, if a bit bland.

"That's two stags for the night, and a stag for the meal. There's bread and broth, and a good sized bird in it, with ale besides." He looked them over "Meal's there now in the common room."

The man in black was shaking his head, and looked to bargain. Tyrion had no patience for haggling. He just wanted a bed. He slipped in a gold dragon in his companion's hand discreetly, nodding a bit, signalling that he would bear all costs, and hoped for the best.

"We'll take it," came a female voice from next to him, much to Tyrion's surprise. That figure had been shorter, certainly, and equally slender too, but somehow Tyrion hadn't expected a woman to be the one dragging him. "A silver extra if you send the meal up. We are really tired," she said, proffering up some silver from within her robes. The man examined the coins and smiled. "It would be my pleasure. Have you no things? My boy will take it up."

Tyrion tensed, but the man spoke smoothly, "Just a box with some clothes. Our man will bring it in the morning. The journey was long, and we were too tired to bring it with us. Do show him to our room when he comes."

The man spoke with such conviction that Tyrion wondered whether a boy was really going to bring a box the next morn. A skilled liar, Tyrion thought. One of Varys's birds? Tyrion hoped that he wasn't entering into a trap. There was little he could do, though, except hope for the best.

The inn-keep nodded, taken in. He retrieved a key, handed it over to a boy, and bid them to follow. The room was just one flight of stairs up, and for this Tyrion was glad. If the woman hadn't been supporting him, he was sure he'd have collapsed. Even so climbing up was a struggle.

The innkeeper's boy opened the door and showed them in. It was a fair room. A straw stuffed mattress on an ordinary bedstead, two chairs, a table, and a fire place. The boy entered, and proceeded to start the fire, turning to leave when the fire was crackling nice and warm. "I'll bring the food up in a moment, master. All hot and hearty," he said to the man who had rescued him.

The boy probably took them for a family: a man, a woman, a child. The door closed gently behind him as the boy left, and Tyrion, without introduction or question, staggered to the bed and awaited his food. If he was going to die, he would do so enjoying his last hours of life.

When sustenance came, he knew not whether it had been a moment or an hour. He felt weary, faint and miserable, even as the delicious smells wafted his way. His companions pushed the laden table towards him, and sat him down against the bedstead. Tyrion dug in, as if he hadn't had a meal in a week. The chicken was succulent and lightly spiced, and the broth was warm and hearty. It was delightful. His companions were eating as well. Not as much, and with their hoods still up, but Tyrion didn't care. He felt better, though still weak, as the meal wound down.

"How did you come to be in such a state, my lord"

The question didn't startle him. Tyrion had concluded that he had been recognised. After all, how many dwarves were there in King's Landing? That they had rescued him rather than let him rot or call the guards, at least gave him some relief. Mayhaps they were after gold. He hoped that they weren't in the Spider's pocket. A Lannister was wont to reward well, he supposed, and they would know it. He would have to work with that…

How much should he reveal, he wondered. If he told them that he had been abandoned by his Lord Father to fend for himself, or that Joffrey had tried to sacrifice him, would they help him still? Lannister gold flowed from the hands of Tywin Lannister, after all. It wouldn't do.

He could feel the man staring at him waiting for his answer. He shuddered thinking about the five men that had been chosen by Qyburn and Joffrey, of the pyre they had built, the strange chants, and the sacrifice. He could see clearly even now: the men, their throats slit, their blood watering the flames, even as their screams failed to emerge from their gurgling throats. No. There was no way Tyrion would tell them.

"I am afraid I was insensible for most of it," he smiled crookedly, instead.

"Indeed?"

Even though the man was still hooded, Tyrion could feel his eyes upon him. Tyrion had a strange feeling that this man could see right through him, and it disconcerted him. The man couldn't know. He'd have to be able to read minds, and that was impossible.

He looked rather ill, Tyrion supposed, for the next question was more solicitous.

"You are well, I hope?" asked the man softly. "You look rather shaken, as if just escaping a hideous death…"

"Yes" Tyrion said. Tyrion could still feel the gaze of the man, even though his words had been polite. There was a strange feeling as if he were being dissected. He was a Lannister, Tyrion reminded himself. He was not craven. Even as he thought of the terror that he felt anticipating his own fiery demise as the men died, and how their deaths actually killed around him, he stared back defiantly. He wouldn't allow this ordinary low-born man to unsettle him. "I am afraid I am a little shaken. I was bound and taken prisoner after all."

"The men around you, my lord, the ones we found dead, their throats slit. Were they your guards?" The man asked, still looking straight at him. Tyrion couldn't make out the man's expression, but his tone of voice betrayed apprehension. It came to Tyrion, then and he exhaled a sigh of relief. There was no need to be unnerved. The man was assessing the situation, the danger of getting mixed up with Tyrion, obviously.

Tyrion hadn't really considered what the scene would have looked to an outsider, now that he thought about it, he realised that he had allowed his terror to overwhelm sense. Naturally, a high lord like Tyrion would not move unaccompanied. Naturally, if there were men dead, and he was bound, it was likely for a rational man to think that those poor men were in his employ. And seeing what happened to men in his employ, the man in front of him would likely regulate his help. Which sane man would guess that Tyrion had been kidnapped and nearly murdered for the noble blood in his veins, to assassinate Severus Martell or Targaryen or whatever he went by now that he had claimed a crown? Or that the men's sacrifice served as a test, to see whether the ritual would work?

Tyrion shuddered again thinking about how the ritual did work. He saw in his mind's eye, the men guarding the gates dying, as the sacrifices lost their life blood. Those were men not sacrifices, a voice in his head kept screaming, even as his mind recalled the event again and again. He recollected Joffrey's ecstacy, allowing for his escape, and his conviction that Tyrion's death would get rid of his hated rival.

No. Any man's first thought would go for a more obvious, more mundane explanation: ransom. Well that was a relief. Ransom he could work with. Gold and money and favours, that was Tyrion Lannister's coin, but first, he needed answers from his mysterious saviours.

"How came you to rescue me, my man? Not that I'm not grateful…"

The man stood, and paced the room, as he spoke, his figure retreating into the shadows.

"My apprentice and I were taking a walk," he said, "The sea air was particularly inviting. We heard a boat leave, which was unusual given the curfew, and then we heard some screaming. There weren't any guards around, so we ran towards the sound. We found you…unconscious. There were men around us, unmoving, likely dead. You were obviously alive, so my apprentice unbound you, and dragged you out. You know the rest."

How much was it a lie? How much true? The man lied well enough to the inn-keep, and even as the man's tale had a whiff of truth, there was no way to tell.

"What do you want? What do you intend to do?"

"A reward for saving your life would be helpful, my lord, though we shan't insist upon it. We hadn't really known it would be Lord Tyrion Lannister that we would be rescuing. I expect we will take whatever you deign to give us, and go about our business, after."

Tyrion did not know what to make of that. Their motives seemed so very simple. If he spoke truly, Tyrion would have a slight reprieve, but how long could it last. Come next day, these people would go about whatever they did, and Tyrion would be caught. Could they help with his escape? Where to, if they could? Nowhere near Joffrey was safe, and Tyrion would bet his healed nose that the monster was sailing to Casterly Rock. He needed a safe place till there was some clarity. He hoped Joffrey would be caught, or drowned. The monster deserved nothing less. Casterly Rock would be safe, then. Until that time came, he needed a place to stay.

Would they be willing? How much could they be trusted? How much of a choice did he have?

"And what is this business?" Tyrion queried. He needed to know whether they'd even have the capacity to help. The woman was his apprentice, the man had said. Which trade, he wondered. There were only a few trades in which a woman could apprentice. But then again, they were wearing Dornish clothes. Things, mayhaps, were different in Dorne, who was to say.

"I am a brewer, my lord"

"A brewer?"

"Indeed"

If there was one thing Tyrion knew very well, it was theh location of each tavern, each whorehouse and each brewer in the city. This man he had seen nowhere. "Which is your brewery? I think I know every brewery in the city."

"I am Dornish, my lord. I brought my brews with me. I am happy to say they were much appreciated. Not a drop remains."

That was convenient, Tyrion thought to himself. A brewer from out of town, with no one to vouch for him. Tyrion felt weary. The feeling of it being a trap came back to him. "Really? To whom did you sell it? Show your face" he ordered, trying to catch the man out.

The man lowered his hood, but the shadows obscured his features. There was dark hair, Tyrion could see, and a large nose, the tip of which reflected the faint light from the hearth. The shine at the end of the nose made it look a bit greasy. Both features were common enough, Tyrion thought, but couldn't make out the rest of his face. The man raised his hood once more.

"Forgive me, my lord. This weather is unusual for a Dornishman, I fear my ears will freeze off if I don't wear my hood. As for my brews, Lady Hermione Spicer would tell you that they are some of the best she has come across. I believe Prince Severus too will attest to their quality."

Now that took Tyrion by surprise, and not a little trepidation. It couldn't be an empty boast. Even if Tyrion was fated to the gallows, any tradesman would know better than to lie.

Did the man know the new King? Unlikely. Did he know the King's servants? Possible. Was he pretending to know the King or his servants to draw out Tyrion, catch him out in some treason? That last caused him no small amount of disquiet. He wouldn't show it though.

"King Severus drinks your wine?" He asked, emphasising the man's title, and his own loyalty, while not bothering to mask his doubt.

"Well, he certainly prefers what I make over the swill they sell here," said the man with supreme confidence.

"Has he told you so?"

Unlikely though it was, if the man truly knew the King, or knew someone who did, perhaps he could broker an arrangement. Being a live hostage was better than a dead example.

"He doesn't need to. My stocks speak for themselves."

So there it was, Tyrion thought disappointed. It wasn't unexpected. This man was just a tradesman with a high opinion of himself. Did the wine even reach Severus Martell, Tyrion wondered. Few of the high lords bought their wares directly. Still, perhaps the man could get him in touch with someone more useful before the guards arrested him. "Who makes the purchases?"

The apprentice spoke up. "Lady Hermione Spicer, my lord."

That was a stroke of luck. Lady Hermione, Tyrion knew, was one of Princess – no- Queen Sansa's ladies. A letter to Lady Hermione meant that it could directly reach the hands of the King. Never had Tyrion been more grateful that the Spicers were ennobled low-born merchants, who hadn't let go of their grasping roots. Could he trust a letter in their hands? Well the worst that would happen would be that the letter would be betrayed to the hands of some guards. At the end of the day, the message would reach the Martells in some way or the other, and that was what mattered.

"I have a message for Lady Hermione to hand over to the King, if she should be so kind, or Prince Oberyn or Queen Sansa, if she should find the King too busy. It is extremely important that this message reaches them. There's ten dragons in it for you now, and much more after the deed is done."

Tyrion counted out the gold coins from his purse, and set them aside.

"Get me a pen and parchment. Some ink, too."

The apprentice rushed to bring them. Gold, how it made the world turn...

Tyrion sat down at the table and scratched out his missive:

Your Grace,

As you read this, know that my nephew has escaped King's Landing. In doing so, I declare that he has given up his claim to the throne. On behalf of House Lannister, I accept you as my liege, and bow before your majesty. I will speak the vows of allegiance like all your lords and bannermen, and swear to serve you loyally, as heir to Casterly Rock.

I pray, Your Grace, that you will allow me the chance to serve you as you will,

I am but your loyal servant,

Lord Tyrion, of House Lannister of Casterly Rock

He sealed it with his own seal, and bid his rescuers to rush the message to Lady Hermione. There was nothing to do now, but hope and wait. He only wished there was a girl to comfort him, should morning never come.

Oldtown was better than Peter had imagined. The citadel was open to any man regardless of birth, and work more than charm mattered as far as progress was concerned. It helped that it was the kind of place that Sirius would have hated. The place was too straitlaced for Sirius, and that suited him just fine.

Peter had been doing very well in the citadel. He was for once, recognised as one of its best students. Alleras, a young Dornishman was the other, but Peter avoided him. He was a bit Snape-ish for his tastes, but thankfully, the young man avoided Peter too. There was something strange about him, but as long as Alleras left him alone, Peter was happy to return the courtesy. He had had enough of mysteries and poking his nose where it didn't belong, thank you very much.

Peter hadn't really bothered much about the news that had been coming in from the capital. Oldtown was, to a large extent, beyond petty politics. Who was king, which lord did what: these matters were of little concern to the citadel, and Peter had loved it. He'd had enough of politics to last him a lifetime, but still some news did leak in.

He had heard of course, that Sirius had been poisoned. He had also heard that regrettably, Sirius had survived. Peter had been ecstatic to learn that Snape had been accused of poisoning Sirius, and had hoped he'd be killed, but the latest raven had been disturbing. It had arrived with the dawn. Dark wings, dark words as they said here. Snape had won a trial by combat. From the manner of the win, it was assumed that he would be taking the throne. A simple charm for one with a wand, Peter thought, not that these people knew.

There was a subject called magic in the citadel, a subject that Peter had avoided so far. The citadel was a muggle place of learning, and the subject was considered, well, a bit hocus-pocus. No one took the subject seriously, much like Divination at Hogwarts. Marwyn the mage, as he was called, was the only archmaester who took the subject with any seriousness, but for most, it was an unseemly mixture of charlatanism and superstition, with the odd ritual and potion thrown in.

Today however, Marwyn's study was packed. Snape's accession seemed to have created a new interest in the subject. His identity here had Targaryen ancestry, and the Targaryens had always been associated with magic. Apparently they had been Dragonlords. Well so was Charlie Weasley, Peter had scoffed to himself, but these people were muggles. Riding dragons here was impressive. He wondered what they'd make of Hagrid.

The Targaryens weren't popular in the citadel. The maesters didn't like people who could casually dismiss their wisdom due to their own inherent power. The maesters were scared and suspicious, and wanted order and predictability. Robert Baratheon, for all that he hated scholarly pursuits, had been generous with his grants, and the maesters thought his reign a golden age. The return of Targaryen rule was unwelcome, and for once, Peter's opinion was the popular one.

Still, there was little that the maesters could do about all this. If they had survived three hundred years of Targaryen rule before, they could do so again. Interest in magic ebbed and flowed with the men in power. There had been a raven from the wall a while ago, Peter knew. The maesters had been gossiping about the needless communications that they got from the wall. There had been reports of some strange happenings, but this was hardly unusual from a group of thieves, rapers and liars: no one gave them any notice, so they had to seek it somewhere. So no one had given these messages much mind, but now, with a new king, who practiced magic (or so it was said), it had been formally announced that magical happenings would not be so easily dismissed. The men from the Night's Watch would be coming in, they had been told and that all the acolytes were asked to make them feel welcome, however distasteful it may be.

And so, Marwyn's lectures were suddenly in more demand. Peter had gone out of sheer curiosity, certain that he'd come back amused. What would a muggle make out of a stunner or an illumination charm?

Amused, Peter hadn't been. Terrified would have been more accurate. Later, even as Peter signed up for Marwyn's course, he regretted ever attending the seminar, for it had shattered the peace he had been feeling since his arrival. Marwyn had not tried to explain magic as they did in muggle Britain as superstition or a showman's act, no, what Marwyn had described, had been magic that Peter knew. Magic that Peter had once tried to seek. He spoke of ancient magicks of Valyria that had dimmed beyond measure. He spoke of rituals to catalyse these magicks into being, and he spoke of the Targaryens and Fire and Blood.