Chapter 31
Drogon's muscles strained beneath Jon. The dragon was restless, straining to go further despite their days of travel. To Jon, it was like sitting on a young horse that had no training – Drogon was ready to bolt, but unlike a horse, losing control of Drogon would be deadly.
Arya and their men were travelling at a good pace below, but it wasn't enough for Drogon and Jon was increasingly aware of how limited his control was.
"Wait," said Jon, patting the dragon's neck. "We need to wait for the others."
Drogon huffed, his hot breath steaming in the air. His behaviour at Winterfell had been strange enough, but it had only worsened the further south they travelled. Jon adjusted his grip, clenching his teeth. He hoped it wasn't a mistake to bring Drogon here, but day by day doubt had begun to take hold of him. On the odd occasion Drogon stopped close enough for him to see Arya she'd made her own misgivings clear, but those chances to talk were getting less and less. Getting Drogon to set down was increasingly difficult and when he did they were several miles away from the rest of the party. The journey south was quickly becoming a disaster. It was all he could do to stay close to Drogon and hope Arya was all right. Leaving the dragon was far too risky.
Jon grimaced as the cold air battered his face. He hoped Bran was safe enough in Kings Landing until they got there. The only consolation was knowing Sansa was safe in the North.
"I want every man in the castle out on horseback. Send ravens to every keep and castle in the North – do whatever you have to. The first priority is getting Tyrion home safely, and the second is finding whoever dared to lay hands on the Prince and bringing them to justice!"
The gathered guards quickly excused themselves, no doubt desperate to get away from her ire. The Queen in the North was cool, calm and collected, but Sansa Stark still held the heart of the girl she'd been. She was emotional, protective of those she cared for and still capable of feeling love, though she struggled to name it. In the aftermath of Tyrion's disappearance, Sansa's carefully maintained barriers had shattered. The Queen of ice and Sansa Stark had blended together – a development that rightly terrified her household.
She drew in a long breath, trying and failing to restore order to her emotions. It was impossible. Tyrion's disappearance had left a raw wound that she knew would fester until he was back with her.
"Your Grace, can we be certain Tyrion hasn't left of his own accord?"
Sansa whipped her gaze to the plump lord sitting along from her. The man rightly shrank under her scrutiny.
"He was seen leaving with Stark men," she said, choking on the words. "Tyrion was happy at Castle Cerwyn – he was happy here – he wouldn't leave like this."
Godwin nodded. His men and the Stark guards had left the Great Hall now, but the Lannister captain remained and Sansa was glad of it, he was the only other one she felt certain shared her desire to find Tyrion. "I believe the Queen is correct. I spoke with lord Tyrion several times on the journey and his devotion to Queen Sansa and remaining in the North was obvious."
"That leaves only the possibility that Tyrion was taken," said lord Manderly, "though I struggle to find a reason why anyone in the North, let alone the Queen's men, would do such a thing."
The reasons were obvious enough, even if lord Manderly wouldn't say them; the North remembers after all, and he was the clear obstacle to any man who sought her hand. Angry tears burned the back of Sansa's eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall. The North would be turned upside down to find Tyrion, and she wouldn't entertain the grim possibility of his fate until the evidence was in front of her. Tyrion was alive, and she would bring him home.
"What of the four guards last seen with him?" asked Sansa.
"Gone, your Grace. From what I can gather they were new to your service and accompanied us to Castle Cerwyn only because of a shortage of your more experienced men. They were not well known by the other guards either," said Godwin.
"The Lannisters who saw them leave?"
"They saw the guards approach Tyrion and by all accounts, he left with them willingly. The young man who first noticed them witnessed it all."
"Surely your men should have protected your lord," sneered a minor lord trying hard to be a major one.
Godwin stiffened. "My men know lord Tyrion dislikes our presence. It saddens me greatly, but he distrusts us just as much now as when he was rescued in Kings Landing. He avoids us as much as possible, and has far more trust in the Stark guards."
'He did,' Sansa thought grimly. Her heart ached at the thought of Tyrion's hard-won progress being set back by this, but that was something she could help him through – she just needed him home with her first.
Guilt bubbled inside Sansa. She'd sent many of her guards with Jon and Arya – too many, apparently. For every seasoned, trusted guard she had left there were at least three new inexperienced guards. The desire to help Bran had blinded her to the stupidity of leaving herself so weakly defended. The Lannister guards were experienced and under Godwin's control, but while they'd helped to bulk out her force she couldn't trust them any more than Tyrion did. Then again, it was Stark men who had disappeared with Tyrion.
"Do whatever it takes to find him," said Sansa. "I know the Lannister army isn't mine to command, but I trust in your desire to find your lord and give you the freedom of the North to do so."
Godwin inclined his head. "Very well, your Grace. With your leave, I will return to the search. Despite the chaos that ensued, I find it unlikely they've gotten too far away."
The Lannister captain turned to leave and Sansa's mind turned back to yesterday. The horse incident had brought their party to a stop, but no one seemed entirely sure what happened. A Stark guard's horse had reared up unexpectedly, hitting another horse and unseating the rider. Another horse had ended up involved before the first horse was subdued, though the damage had been done. One horse was too injured to save and a Stark guard was crushed by a falling horse. The cause of the incident was the biggest concern – the first horse appeared to have suffered a sudden burn to its flank, but no one could understand how it had happened. There had been no fire near the horses. The commotion had led to disorganisation – the kind that wouldn't have happened with a group of more experienced guards. As it happened, Godwin's men had been the exception, but there was hardly enough of them to set an example and they weren't Sansa's to command.
It was only when a young Lannister guard reported what he'd seen to Godwin that Sansa's worst nightmare come true. The boy had explained what he'd seen and overheard, but it was only when he saw Sansa without Tyrion that he realised what may have happened. By then it was too late. The North was secluded and lonely. Sansa had sent her men out straight away – Godwin had done the same, but disaster had struck for a second time. A bitter taste filled the Queen's mouth. Now it was clear enough. None of it had been accidental yesterday. The horses had distracted them enough for Tyrion to be taken, and no sooner had they rallied to search did the surrounding trees catch fire. How they caught fire was as curious as how the horse was burned – there was simply no logical explanation.
"We will find Tyrion, your Grace," said lord Manderly. "I believe the Lannister captain is quite right – whoever has taken him can't have gone far."
"He should have been safe here."
"The involvement of your guards is rather troubling. I'm happy to offer you the service of some of my own men if you would sleep better."
Sansa nodded, her mind miles away. A hollow ache had sat in her chest since Tyrion disappeared, and she knew it would remain there until he was home.
'If he comes home..'
She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to entertain the dark thought. Tyrion would be found, safe and well. When he was back with her, she would make whoever took him wish they were in the seven hells.
Lord Manderly cleared his throat. "Forgive me your Grace, but I wondered if you'd perhaps had a chance to see to your guest? His appearance here is rather….unusual."
Sansa lifted her head, considering the strange guest that had awaited her at Winterfell. The fires on the road back here had made searching for Tyrion impossible. Returning to Winterfell without him had felt every kind of wrong, but Sansa knew she was only a distraction from the search; the guards would focus on protecting the Queen rather than finding her husband.
There was nothing to do but wait for news. Until then her guest could provide a distraction, however hollow.
Bile burned the back of Jeyne's throat as he was brought into her wheelhouse. Why did it have to be him? If it had to be a Lannister she'd have much rather it had been Jamie, were he alive, even with the incest rumours and his missing hand. Anything was better than the imp. Her stomach lurched as she watched the guards position him.
For weeks they'd travelled North, supposedly to collect the lord of Casterly Rock. Her father had made his orders perfectly clear, but he'd kept many details of his plan from her too. The party that travelled with her had increased in size, going from an inconspicuous group flying no banners to a large wheelhouse bearing the lion banner. Jeyne had lost track of the days when travelling. It was mind-numbingly boring and she had no companionship, aside from Maester Gallard and lord Westerling when they called upon her. The lord was of a relatively minor house, but he'd apparently been trusted by her father – more than she was anyway. The Maester and the lord had called upon her several times the closer they got to Winterfell, though it was only to ensure compliance.
"The imp has hardly been seen since he got here," said lord Westerling. "We've no idea what state he's in but there are whispers he's to travel to Castle Cerwyn with the Queen."
"That would suggest he's mobile, at the very least," said Gallard, a frown covering his face. "At worst he's recovered his wits. If that is the case your task will be more difficult, but not impossible. We'll know more when we get hold of him. Its possible fear can make him compliant, and if not I have potions enough to make him so in public. It's in private that you must take command…"
Jeyne shuddered, trying not to gag. She knew exactly what they wanted her to do – the Maester had explained how to make him spill his seed in enough detail to give her nightmares. She was to start bedding him immediately, and as soon as they reached the Westerlands there would be a quick marriage ceremony, sold as lord Tyrion's passionate desire to marry the woman who had stolen his heart.
She knew relatively little of how they'd managed to take him, but that hardly mattered. Her father and Ser Harys Swyft had already planted the seeds in the Westerlands. The lord of Casterly Rock wished to return home – a select group of his bannermen had gone to meet him. The Lannister guards were new, though Jeyne had heard enough whispers to know they weren't actually Lannister guards. A group of twenty men had met them some days ago, moving Jeyne from her small wheelhouse to this plush, spacious one fit for a lord. The men had joined their party, dressed in plain clothes at first but since lord Tyrion had arrived they'd switched to Lannister uniforms. When they returned to the Westerlands it would look as if lord Tyrion had chosen to return from the North, bringing his men home with him.
Maester Gallard had been supervising the guards who brought Tyrion in, but now he stepped back and Jeyne could see the work had been done. The lord of Casterly Rock was lying on his back, with his hands bound behind his back and a gag secured around his mouth. To Jeyne's relief they hadn't positioned him on the bed she slept in, but rather on a chaise lounge with curved arms on either side. She glimpsed a length of rope trailing from his bound hands and realised it was wrapped around the chair. There was enough slack to allow him some movement but it was impossible for him to escape the chair. He was asleep, thank the gods, though the deep furrow of his brow suggested it was far from a pleasant rest.
"That should be more than adequate for you to work with," said Gallard, stepping beside her. "We'll be travelling quickly to get out of the North, and while you work in here we will maintain appearances outside. Lord Tyrion has recovered some strength but has become reclusive, it is only the passion that your letters have stirred in him that encouraged him to return to Casterly Rock – that is the story we will sell. There's a direwolf ring stuck on his finger and I haven't the tools to remove it yet. When we reach the West I'll see it's removed, and if not we can take the finger. I don't expect he'll need to be seen in public yet, and if so it should be easy enough to hide."
The lies were easy enough to believe. Her father and Maester Gallard would paint the story that lord Lannister is a traumatised recluse, and the West would go along with it. Her stomach churned as the Maester continued, laying out her future in simple steps.
"You are to remain in the wheelhouse with him, doing as discussed. Bed him. Convince him. Threaten him. See how damaged his mind is. If he's malleable enough you might be able to befriend him, but either way, the priority is to get his son in your belly as soon as possible. I will check on you from time to time, under the pretence of calling upon our lord, but this is your duty. If he has recovered his wits there are drafts I can give him to soften his mind. Remember what is at stake Jeyne – your father is relying on you."
The old Maester and the guards left, leaving Jeyne to face her future. Angry tears burned her eyes. She wanted to marry a tall, handsome young lord – not a scruffy little imp. Gods, was he drooling? It wasn't fair. If her father wanted Casterly Rock so badly he should be the one to lay with this…thing. Jeyne tried hard to find something redeemable about Tyrion Lannister, but it was impossible. His hair was growing out a little and he didn't look quite as disgusting as he had in Kings Landing, but she had no desire to be in the room with him, let alone touch him. The scar across his face was as ugly as ever, and that was before she considered his body. A shudder passed through her. Thank the Gods they'd left his clothes on, but that was only so she could remove them. If he was still the quivering wreck she'd seen in Kings Landing, she was expected to try and seduce him – to gain the influence over him that Sansa Stark supposedly had. If he was sound of mind, well, he wouldn't be when the Maester started work on him.
Jeyne edged closer to the chaise, biting her lip. Her father had made his expectations perfectly clear, all she had to do was follow orders.
It was pitiful. The army before her was hardly fit for a Queen, and a poor imitation of the army she'd once led. There were no Dothraki screamers, no unsullied – there were a few hundred men wearing a mismatch of house colours. The only ones to wear the dragon sigil were the red priests. Azor Ahai, they called her. The prince who was promised. Lord Lydden had sent to Volantis for a priest who might return her to life, but he'd got far more than that. The followers of the lord of light had flocked to her, their belief strong that she was the promised saviour. It was a view reinforced by her return to life. Kinvara was the priestess responsible for that feat, and Daenerys found the woman becoming her closest ally – or as close as she would allow anyone to get. Tyrion had failed miserably as her hand, and his downfall had only exposed more traitors; Varys, Missandei, Grey Worm – Jon.
A flicker went through her chest at the thought of Jon Snow, but it was so mild she might have imagined it. Aegon had chosen his path – he'd chosen the wolves over her – it made it so much easier to call her last child.
"My queen, what troubles you?" asked the high priestess. They were standing on the balcony of Dragonstone, overseeing the preparations going on below.
"My army is greatly weakened from what it was," said Daenerys. "The last time I stood here on the verge of victory my support was greater."
"True, but they were not loyal to you as these followers are. They were many, but they were treacherous."
Daenerys nodded but a frown covered her face. She turned her gaze North instead, but as expected there was nothing there.
"Soon, your Grace," said Kinvara. "Drogon is worth more than any army. "You are the princess that was promised, born in smoke and salt, reborn by the lord of light."
"I will not forget," said Daenerys. "When I take my throne, I will gladly welcome the lord of light to Westeros. The lords of the Westerlands have been useful, but they seek to use me. Instead, they have woken the dragon."
Tyrion wasn't sure whether the gag was a help or a hindrance. It had spared him the embarrassment of crying out, but it also threatened to choke him on the vomit burning the back of his throat. He struggled to gain control – to find anything that would tether him to the reality of his situation rather than the flashbacks fighting to take him. He was trapped on his back, with his arms twisted painfully behind him and a wad of cloth acting as a gag. He was moving, in a wheelhouse most likely. Tyrion had travelled in enough of them to know how poorly they handled the Northern terrain and the constant bumping let him know this wheelhouse was no exception.
His shoulder throbbed angrily from the position, but there was nothing he could do to relieve the pressure on the old injury. Left with no other option, Tyrion turned his gaze to the only view afforded him; a bed tucked against the side of the wheelhouse, a table with two chairs, and a woman. No, not a woman – her face still held the roundness of youth, and her expression spoilt any claim of being a woman grown. Tyrion forced his tense muscles to relax – he was only making himself sore, and the girl's expression was as familiar as an old friend.
Disgust was something he knew intimately, and the girl's face held little else as she watched him. Unable to do any more than wiggle or try and speak around his gag, Tyrion was forced to wait for the girl to make her move, whatever it would be. She edged closer to him, taking small steps as if he was a dangerous animal and not a prisoner.
The girl paused beside the chair, her face twisting as if she'd smelt something unpleasant. Whoever was behind this, Tyrion suspected the girl had no more desire to be here than he did – though it was his own stupid fault. Shame burned through him at the memory of his capture. Believing the Stark guards had been foolish, but part of him had wanted to believe Sansa sought his company. The Lannister guards watching on had only made the choice to trust the Stark guards easier. Of course, that was his biggest mistake. They weren't guards he'd recognised and it was unlikely Sansa, who knew him so well, would send unfamiliar guards to lead him away from the main party.
No sooner had doubt crept in did the guards turn on him. He remembered little after they took hold of him and smothered his face with a foul-smelling cloth. The Stark guards had faded from view only to be replaced with snippets of the same faces dressed in Lannister uniforms, but there were more of them, hiding him from view like a guard of honour. Tyrion searched for more details, but there were only vague impressions of being carried and fleeting images. He suspected the men were neither Stark nor Lannister – not Godwin's Lannister guards at any rate, and Sansa most certainly hadn't ordered this.
The girl shifted from foot to foot for several minutes before perching on the edge of the chaise to which he was bound. "My lord father says I am to bed you from here to the Westerlands to get your son in my belly. Then you are to become my husband as soon as we reach the Westerlands. My father wants an heir and a spare from you. He will control Casterly Rock through you, and if you prove a problem he'll have the Maester make you docile and amenable to this. You'll die in your sleep one night when your usefulness runs out."
Tyrion's world crashed around him. Every possible image of a future with Sansa that he hadn't dared to dream suddenly came to mind, and Tyrion wanted it all – so badly his heart could hardly handle the want.
The girl leaned a little closer, lowering her voice. "I'd throw myself beneath this gods forsaken wheelhouse before I partake in any of that!"
She was a pretty enough girl, but not even the maiden in flesh could compel him to share a bed with a woman who so obviously detested him, and that was before considering the grim shadow of a life she painted. Besides, it wouldn't have made a single bit of difference if she'd lavished him in false praise or tried to seduce him. His heart already had a home, and the sudden distance from her made him painfully aware of the fact.
Tyrion squirmed in his restraints, grunting as his shoulder protested the movement. There was no way to free his hands – the rope was too tight, and one of his hands was useless anyway. She peered closer at him, disgust rippling across her face as if getting too close might poison her.
"You don't want to be here," she said, her voice a whisper, "and neither do I. We could make a deal – you're lord of Casterly Rock, and if I free you, you can take command of all these men." Excitement sparked in her eyes. "You can order them to stand down. All I ask is that you let me escape with you and don't send me back to my father."
Tyrion grunted, dropping his eyes downwards to indicate the gag in his mouth. There was a hint of fear in the girl, but she'd clearly weighed her options and decided anything was better than life with him. If Tyrion was younger and pettier, as he'd once been, he might have considered abandoning the girl for the way she looked at him. It hurt when he was young, and it hurt now when he was treated as less than human. His time in Kings Landing had already stripped away every defense he'd built to protect that fragility in his heart, but he wasn't the man he'd once been. All he cared about was going home to Sansa. That had to be his focus. If it wasn't, his mind could well succumb to the memories. They were always lurking, and they always would be – he just needed them to stay on the outskirts of his mind.
The girl hesitated, bracing herself as if he'd asked her to pull an arrow from his arse rather than a gag from his mouth. She steeled her resolve after a few minutes and pulled the gag from his mouth so it hung around his neck.
"Would you like to wash your hands, dear?" he asked. "You look as if you've touched something contagious."
She recoiled, lifting her nose, but didn't comment. Not that she needed to – her opinion of him was perfectly clear, and while he should be grateful for it, that did little to ease the stinging reminder of what he was. Living with Sansa had spoiled him. The Winterfell household never flinched away from him or treated him with disgust. Yvette was unfailingly kind to him, as was Jon and even Arya. Sansa had taken his defenses apart so subtly he hadn't noticed how he'd come to rely on her comfort, but he suspected it had started in Kings Landing, where she'd tended to him without hesitation or revolt.
As soon as his mind turned to Kings Landing, he placed the girl's face. She'd been there, he was sure of it! It was the vaguest slither of a memory, but the petulant look on her face was hard to forget, as was the wrinkling of her nose whenever she looked at him.
"Who are you?" he asked. "I've seen your face."
"Jeyne Lydden." She sniffed. "My father made me visit you in Kings Landing to try and convince King Bran to let us take you West. Of course, he sided with his sister at the hearing and I got the blame – it's not my fault you asked for Sansa Stark! Don't get me wrong, I couldn't be happier. If my father had won he'd have made me marry you by now…."
The girl went on, listing a number of gripes about her father, but Tyrion hardly heard her. His mind was reeling with the information she'd inadvertently given him. There was a hearing, for what? To decide who got custody of him like a prize pig? And he'd asked for Sansa? It was too much to take in, and now wasn't the time to be doing so.
"Untie me," he said, wriggling on the chaise.
"No," said Jeyne, pursing her lips. "Not until I have your word that you'll follow the plan and abide by our deal."
"Plan? You want me to go out of this wheelhouse and give orders. I hate to break it to you, but if these men were loyal to me I wouldn't be tied and gagged so you can get on with raping me."
"They're telling everyone you're traumatised," she said, throwing the word around as if it meant nothing, and to this summer child, it probably did. "Tell them they're wrong – make them obey you."
"This isn't a plan, it's doomed to fail." Tyrion didn't voice the reasons why, though they were plentiful. Top of the list was his inability to take charge – he was not a commanding presence anymore, nor did he have anyone with him to enforce his orders if he did. "I don't even know who my enemies are. I'm assuming you're the daughter of lord Jon Lydden? Badger sigil. A grasping minor lord."
"I'm not telling you anything until you give me what I want. When I'm safely away from here I want a written pardon for any and all treason against you – it was all my father and Ser Harys anyway. I need a guarantee I won't be sent back to my father and the freaks from Essos he has in the castle. I need your word you won't try to marry me or bed me too. I'm well aware of your…" her face soured, "reputation."
Most highborn ladies were gracious to lords, particularly young unmarried ladies – it was expected. To their liege lord, no matter how distasteful they found him, highborn ladies were taught by their septas to look past that and leave a good impression. They were lessons that had shielded Sansa in Kings Landing as a child, and lessons Jeyne Lydden either didn't grasp or assumed he was an exception to. No daughter of a minor lord would have dared to speak like this to his fath- to Tywin Lannister, nor would any man with an ounce of sense. The lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West would be well within his rights to point this insubordination out and demand amends or punishment – but Tyrion held no titles or name.
He swallowed. For now, it was better to play along. Bran Stark hadn't accepted his surrender, as Godwin liked to point out. It was strange really. Losing his name and titles had felt freeing at the time, but he'd searched for weeks for a role to fill in Sansa's household and found nothing, and though this girl believed him to be lord Tyrion Lannister it didn't change her opinion of him. Lord or bastard. Lannister or Hill. It didn't make any difference – it ultimately came down to human or monster, and the girl's open disgust was merely an honest representation of how others saw him, but often hid behind courtesies.
"Ugh, are you going to cry?" she asked, curling away from him. "If you start crying and asking for the Stark girl again I'll smother you with a pillow and escape myself. I only ungagged you because I thought you weren't confused and might be useful."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes, allowing his anger to temper the peculiar mix of hurt and trauma bubbling in his chest. The girl was insufferable, lacking any of the charms that had allowed the likes of Margaery Tyrell and Sansa to play the game of thrones.
"Tell me what you know, now," he snapped. "And you needn't worry about me fucking you dear, I'd rather shove my cock in the ice."
Sansa sipped her wine, hoping the sweet taste might settle some of her nerves. That was wishful thinking of course – her nerves would never settle while Tyrion was missing. The desire to ride out and find him herself was overwhelming, but too many guards would be distracted with her safety rather than finding her husband and that wasn't a risk she could allow.
It was the best choice, but had left Sansa with only her fear for company – and her guest. The man across from her had arrived at Winterfell only yesterday, and in her absence, lord Manderly had allowed him to stay to await her judgement. He was neither highborn nor from the North, but that was only part of the reason lord Manderly had thought she might wish to meet with him.
"This castle is very fine," he said. "Though I'd prefer it in a sunnier place."
"I doubt you see much snow and ice across the Narrow Sea," said Sansa.
He grinned. "I thought I'd been cold before, but not like this. A good thing Missandei and Grey Worm warned me of this cold."
Uhlan was the strangest man Sansa had ever seen, but the longer she spent in his presence the more she was able to define why. He had an Essos accent she couldn't quite place, though she suspected his accent was partially inherited from whoever had taught him the common tongue. His head was bald and he wore baggy breeches with a vivid red shift beneath an equally garish multicoloured waistcoat. The shift was thicker than most and split at the top to reveal his chest in a style Westerosi men wouldn't wear, particularly when in an audience with a Queen. It was neither his accent or style choices that made him remarkable however, it was the tattoos that covered his entire body – or that Sansa could see at least. Some intricate, some simple patterns intertwined with various animals and objects across Uhlan's body, including his bald head and several designs across his face. It was little wonder lord Manderly thought she should meet with him, it was a wonder the old lord hadn't dropped in shock.
"How exactly do you know Missandei and Grey Worm?" asked Sansa.
Uhlan had joined her for dinner in her study. It was a courtesy she'd afforded him only because of his mention of Missandei and Grey Worm. If this man truly knew their allies across the Narrow Sea she would rather speak to him privately, though lord Manderly's personal guards now kept watch outside the door. With so many of her men travelling south and the rest searching for Tyrion, there was little option than to accept whatever protection was available.
"An interesting tale, Queen," he said. Despite the tattoos that littered his face, Uhlan had a pleasant expression and appeared perfectly at ease in her presence. As if she'd invited him to Winterfell rather than him inviting himself. "You see, I give people freedom."
"From what?"
"The past. In Essos there is slavery, you see. Masters are cruel – they often brand their slaves with tattoos. They demean them, mark them as property." His face fell to a frown, though a glint came into his eyes. "I give people their power back. If slaves are lucky enough to escape they often try and remove the marks themselves by cutting or burning them away. It is messy and dangerous, but it gives them freedom. I travel Essos offering a different path. That is how I met Missandei. There are those in Essos who do not like what I do. I was attacked in Naath and a group of Unsullied rescued me. Missandei was with them, and a man called Grey Worm. They are former slaves who are free – the Unsullied fight to help slaves escape! I have much respect for what they do. We talked and I told them I owed a great debt in any way they would ask of me – the lady Missandei gave me gold to travel and asked I repay my debt here."
Sansa's heart leapt. "What did she ask of you?"
He smiled, pulling a battered letter from a baggy pocket. "Missandei asked I give this to Tyrion Lannister, and offer my services. She and Grey Worm spoke highly of his courage and what he went through. She believed he would still be here, but if not, that you would be able to help me find him."
"Tyrion is at Winterfell," said Sansa, "or at least he should be. We were travelling back yesterday…he was taken. We're doing everything to bring him home."
Sansa's voice faltered as she said the words and Uhlan's eyes filled with sympathy. "I see."
"You'll wait, won't you? Please. Tyrion could really use your help – he was captured by his sister and she had these awful tattoos put on him," said Sansa, panic bubbling in her chest. This man could help Tyrion. It was the best opportunity he would get, but the timing was horrifically unfortunate.
"I am free man, Queen. I serve no one, but I pay debt. I will wait to speak to Tyrion Lannister and see if I might help free him too."
Tyrion wanted nothing more than to be far away from Jeyne Lydden. The way she looked at him made his skin crawl and his vulnerable position on the chaise didn't help anything. The girl was bloody stubborn and had refused to untie him until they agreed on some kind of plan. Little did she realise that leaving him bound like this was actively hurting their chances – his shoulder was in agony from the strained position and it would only make his mobility worse. Tyrion had considered telling her this and demanding freedom, but he doubted it would make any difference. The girl was openly disgusted by him and cared nothing for him or his discomfort, despite her reliance on his help and word of honour. In Jeyne Lydden's world, no one mattered but her.
It was a trait he assumed she'd inherited from her father, but Tyrion's knowledge of house Lydden was somewhat limited. They were a minor house, and just as grasping as any other. Ser Harys Swyft – the accomplice in this scheme to overthrow his non-existent rule – was easier to place if only for Tyrion's memories of his uncle Kevan complaining about him. Tyrion's mouth twitched up for a moment. From what little information he'd gleaned from Jeyne, lord Lydden had drawn half the lords of the Westerlands into this plot to turn him into a puppet figurehead used for his seed. The effort he'd gone to was laughable given Tyrion had surrendered Casterly Rock and all claims anyway. How much time had he wasted on this plot? If they'd waited a little longer Bran would have appointed a successor to the Westerlands and spared them all this plotting. As it happens, he is still lord and all of lord Lydden's men and co-conspirators can be hung as traitors. It was a pleasant thought as he looked at Jeyne's sour face, even if he'd agreed to pardon the wretched girl.
Unfortunately, planning an escape wasn't going well. Jeyne unsurprisingly knew little of her father's plan that didn't involve her, but she had confirmed his suspicion that the men who abducted him were not true Stark guards. They'd slipped into the last Winterfell intake when Sansa sent so many of her men south, but they were not Lannister men either, nor were they even from the Westerlands. Where they came from, there was no telling, but according to Jeyne the men who abducted him and now accompanied the wheelhouse were followers of the lord of light – currently wearing the colours and sigil of house Lannister. It was a development he was struggling to get his head around.
"Why would your father ally himself with followers of the lord of light? There's very few in Westeros, so I'm assuming they've travelled across the Narrow Sea."
"Enough questions," said Jeyne, tapping her foot impatiently. "I told you what you need to know, now come up with a plan."
"Ah, a plan, yes. Would you mind untying me so I can pull it out of my arse?"
She wrinkled her nose. "You're disgusting."
"And if we botch an escape attempt I'll be your husband. Now tell me; are any of these guards loyal to you, personally? Not to your father or house but to you. Is there anyone who could help us?"
"I don't talk to the guards." The idea seemed to horrify her. The girl wore no crown but it appeared she'd been raised as if she were a spoilt princess, and now was upset her father wanted some return on his investment. "Most of my father's trusted guards are with him or the Queen. He left lord Westerling and Maester Gallard in charge of this."
"What Queen are you talking about? Sansa had no hand in any of this." It was one thing Tyrion was absolutely certain of.
She rolled her eyes. "That's not important right now. What matters is-"
A knock on the door silenced them both, but had the most profound effect on Jeyne. She seemed to forget her disgust of him as she dropped next to his ear, though her voice was as harsh as winter. "It's probably Maester Gallard. I'll try and get rid of him, but you need to play along. If he thinks you've recovered he'll give you potions to make you compliant – just act like you did in Kings Landing, all confused and scared. Don't ask for Sansa Stark."
Tyrion narrowed his eyes. His memories of that time were scrambled but he'd heard enough to reconstruct the events and his role in them. He knew how afraid he'd been, and that Sansa had stayed by his side through it all, offering comfort and protection. The idea of reverting to the scared creature that lurked inside him was offensive to his recovery. It was degrading and not at all how he wanted to be seen, but if it was the only way…
Jeyne didn't wait for an answer before straightening up and moving to the single door, though she paused long enough to glance between him and a pillow on the bed – a reminder of his possible fate if it came down to a forced marriage.
She pulled the door open a few inches, but Tyrion could only see the back of her and not who she spoke to. He warred with himself for a moment, before slumping against the chaise. His range of movement was limited but he brought his aching legs up and tried to turn on his side, keeping his eyes on the floor beside him. He let himself tremble, and tried to ignore the bile burning the back of his throat. It was a pathetic display aimed at mimicking the sorry state he'd been in following Kings Landing. It disgusted him, but Tyrion reasoned his pride was a small price to pay to get back to Sansa. Besides, he should be used to humiliation at this point.
Though Tyrion couldn't see the guest, Jeyne's conversation still drifted to him.
"How is our lord?" said the man. Old and well-spoken, Tyrion assumed this to be the Maester.
"In some distress when he woke," said Jeyne. Her tone was demure and aimed to appeal to the man at the door. Tyrion had seen women like Margaery Tyrell use such tactics with great results – it was unfortunate Jeyne had the allure of a puddle. "He's more settled now. I've been talking to him for hours…"
Tyrion winced – they had been long hours, and her voice betrayed how painful it was for all involved.
"What state is his mind in?" asked the Maester.
"Confused Maester. I've explained how we came to save him and take him back to Casterly Rock. He's accepting it all."
"Lord Tyrion has taken to you, has he?"
Tyrion's heart sank at the skepticism in the man's voice, but Jeyne ploughed on regardless.
"Of course. He's still confused but I can manage him."
"Perhaps I should see him."
Jeyne held the door half-closed. "He's starting to trust me Maester, it's better we don't distress him right now."
"I'd rather see him for myself. Your role as his wife is important but I should also establish myself in his trust, particularly if his mind is malleable."
Tyrion trembled as the Maester entered the room and it wasn't entirely forced. Could this man scramble his mind with potions, like Qyburn, and reduce him to the creature he'd become in Kings Landing? What would Sansa think if he was married off and forced to produce heirs? Perhaps it wouldn't come to that – Jeyne had promised to suffocate him rather than bed him, and if those were his options he'd gladly accept it.
He kept his gaze turned down as the Maester approached, letting his body tremble in this pathetic condition. Jeyne followed closely at his heels, positioning herself next to Tyrion's face. The proximity surely disgusted her, but Tyrion knew her desire to help him maintain the ruse was entirely selfish. Without him of clear mind, there would be no escape and no pardon. It was a freedom she was willing to fight for, and temporarily put aside her disdain to achieve.
Tyrion made a show of trying to squirm back from the Maester, ignoring the terrible ache in his shoulder. He turned his face towards Jeyne, mumbling incoherently under his breath.
"Hello lord Tyrion, it is good to see you again."
Again? The man had a vague familiarity to his face, but Tyrion couldn't place where he'd seen him.
"Who…" he let his voice quiver. "Who are you?"
"Maester Gallard, my lord – I oversaw your initial care in Kings Landing. I must say you don't look very comfortable like that."
Jeyne jumped in to answer. "He knows it's for his safety. This wheelhouse is rickety so I told him we've secured him to keep him safe."
"Ah, I see." He nodded. "Why are his clothes still on?"
Tyrion's heart sped up at the abrupt question, and it took all his focus to remain in the timid, confused state he was trying to portray rather than to start pulling desperately at the bonds for escape.
"My lord was upset, I thought it best to relax him first," said Jeyne. She reached for his head and ran her hand through his short hair in what he assumed was supposed to look affectionate to the old man. Tyrion's stomach churned as she continued the gesture – the girl was petting him like a barely tolerated dog rather than a human. He missed Sansa. Not once did her touch dehumanise him like this, but rather brought a comfort he couldn't put into words.
"Quite understandable," said Gallard, "or it would be if lord Tyrion actually was confused and afraid. I've spoken extensively with the men who infiltrated the Stark guards and they are convinced Tyrion is of sound mind, if an anxious disposition."
"You think me a liar Maester?" said Jeyne. "Don't you see the pathetic state of him?"
"I see a farce that will not spare either of you." The man bent down, his breath tickling Tyrion's neck. Strong, bony fingers grasped his face, twisting his head to face the Maester. "I know you've regained your wits my lord Lannister, but I'm afraid it isn't a state that can continue. I hope you're comfortable on this chaise because you're going to spend a lot of time with my potions in your mouth and the girl on your cock."
Panic seized Tyrion, spreading its cold fingers through his chest. The Maester's old eyes glinted with a hint of maliciousness that seemed out of place. What had he done to offend this man that he would take away his mind and render him useless?
"I must admit they've done good work on you," said Gallard, appraising him. "When I evaluated you I believed your mind was a lost cause and healing your body a waste. I would have taken your leg and left your shoulder to heal as it was. Hmm, It appears rebreaking your shoulder has had some benefit, though I imagine your current position is straining the old injury. Ah, yes I can see it in your eyes. Your hand will not have healed, but that was always a lost cause. Henly and the Stark girl were right, I will admit to that – there were other ways to treat your injuries than what I suggested, but I saw very little point in the effort. My treatment would have kept you alive, though crippled and dependent on care. Your life would have been a simple one. The Stark girl could waste her affections on you as a clueless invalid, and you would live out your days in oblivion."
"Queen Sansa!" said Tyrion, forcing his voice to work. "She is Queen in the North, and her name doesn't belong in your mouth."
His fingers tightened, digging into Tyrion's face. "I serve the true Queen, and it is her wish that you become a clueless invalid while you have a use, and in a few years' time, you will be disposed of. An heir and a spare – children you'll father but not know. That is your future lord Tyrion, and I suggest you make peace with it, as must Jeyne."
Tyrion's world was in freefall at the image the old Maester painted. He barely registered the door opening and the footsteps moving closer until the Maester released his face and straightened up.
"What are you doing in here?" snapped Gallard.
Tyrion glimpsed two guards moving towards them, wearing a yellow sigil he only vaguely recognised from the Westerlands – a minor house. Both inclined their heads to the Maester, but in the next moment, the leaner guard was moving. He wrapped an arm around the old man's throat, holding a knife in front of his face.
"Wha-" Jeyne started, but the guard pointed the knife at her and she fell silent, covering her mouth with her hands.
Tyrion's chest heaved as he tugged helplessly at his restraints. The second guard moved beside him, lifting his visor.
"Hello old friend."