The rattling of chains outside Tyrion's cell signalled it was almost time to depart on his northern adventure. Jaime had visited him twice, assuring him that Varys had a plan to free him once he arrived at Eastwatch. From there, he would cross the Narrow Sea.
The story was plausible; Tyrion knew Varys was in the north, trying to pave the way for a marriage alliance for Jaime. The match with Sansa Stark seemed unlikely to proceed, due to Jaime lingering too long in King's Landing. Tyrion knew Varys was snooping among the northerners, seeking to understand why they refused to bend the knee. It was especially curious, as Lord Whitestark had been in King's Landing during the past fortnight.
From what Tyrion could gather, Jon had left the day before the wedding, which was rather suspicious, if you asked Tyrion—not that anyone had bothered to do so. However, Lord Whitestark didn't seem the type to commit regicide. Tyrion couldn't say the boy was of low intellect; he didn't know him well enough. But orchestrating the murder of a king at his wedding took a murderous cunning Tyrion didn't believe the boy possessed.
The door to his cell opened, and a guard entered holding iron shackles. "Need to put these on you, Lord Tyrion."
Tyrion held out his hands. "Do your worst," he sighed, glancing around the room one last time. Despite the dampness and stench, it was warm. Tyrion knew from his previous visit to the Wall, should the plan fail, he'd be cold for the rest of his life. He shivered at the prospect.
The shackles were fastened to his wrists, tight enough to be uncomfortable. They were heavy against his short arms, not designed for someone of his stature.
The guards escorted Tyrion through the dark passages of the black cells before emerging into the brilliant sunshine of the Red Keep's courtyard. From there, he was led to a small inlet used by the royal family for sea voyages.
Aboard a small rowing boat, two men donned Night's Watch attire. Waiting for him at the inlet were Jaime, Cersei, and Myrcella. Tyrion knew Tommen couldn't be there, as he was the King. He wasn't even surprised his father was absent.
What piqued his curiosity was Cersei's presence. He knew she wouldn't miss him. The smirk on her face told him she wanted to witness his departure. To make sure he was gone once and for all.
"My dear sister, it is so good to see you looking so well," he remarked, noting her black silk dress with gold brocade. "Are you here to grieve my departure?"
"I'm here to make sure you don't jump out of that boat and swim back," she hissed. "I never want to see your filthy little face around here again."
"Cersei," Jaime chided, glancing toward Myrcella, who was sniffling.
"Will you write to me from the Wall?" Myrcella asked.
Tyrion glanced at his two siblings. He should tell the girl the truth. Even if he made it to Castle Black, he doubted he could write to her.
"I shall see what Lord Commander Mormont says," he said, stroking her cheek with a cuffed hand before Myrcella pulled him into a tight hug. Tyrion would have reciprocated if not for the shackles binding his wrists.
Tyrion had always been fond of his niece and youngest nephew. They were kind children, and he wondered how on earth they had emerged from Cersei's evil womb. His sister didn't deserve such goodness.
Once Myrcella let him go, Tyrion turned to Jaime and noticed for the first time that his older brother was no longer dressed in his Kingsguard attire.
"You've resigned your post?" Tyrion asked.
"Father wants me to take on Casterly Rock, especially now that you cannot take it in my stead, and Tommen can no longer inherit."
Tyrion knew Jaime was lying to a degree. His brother couldn't tell Cersei what he had given up to save Tyrion's life, choosing him over the woman Jaime loved. Tyrion swallowed the lump in his throat. Nobody had ever done such a gracious thing for him. The best he could do was live his life well.
"You will make a worthy lord, Lord Lannister," Tyrion japed.
Jaime raised an eyebrow. "That is still Father's title."
Tyrion shrugged. "Still, it suits you, brother."
"Maybe black will suit you too," Jaime suggested, a knowing glint in his eye, hidden from Cersei.
"I always found it a dull colour. Perhaps I can liven it up a bit."
Jaime crouched and hugged Tyrion. "Take care, brother. Look after yourself," he whispered.
"You too," Tyrion replied, holding back the sobs.
"We haven't got all week," a voice called from behind. Jaime let Tyrion go, and Tyrion turned to see the speaker—one of the men with the rowing boat.
The guard who had bound Tyrion's hands removed the shackles. Tyrion rubbed his wrists, glad to be free of them before heading towards his next prison. He turned around, taking one final look at the Red Keep.
He took in its beauty—the red stonework and gardens—but he couldn't help but see the evil within it. The Iron Throne was a curse to everyone who sat on it. Perhaps it just needed the right person who would do good for Westeros. Tyrion knew that wasn't his family. For every Tommen and Myrcella, there was a Cersei or his father pulling the strings.
Water splashed under his feet, soaking through his shoes as he made his way to the small sailing boat. After three futile attempts, one of the men helped him climb in. Choosing not to look back again, lest the tears fall, he faced the Blackwater as the men rowed away, taking Tyrion to his frozen destination.
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The Storm Crow had already left the harbour when Tyrion's boat pulled alongside it. This meant he had to climb up the ladder, which was no simple task for a man of his stature. With each rung of the rope ladder, he was convinced he would fall into the sea. Of course, Cersei would be overjoyed with such an outcome.
The men aboard must have either taken pity on him or grown frustrated by his lack of progress, as they hauled up the rope ladder with him attached. Tyrion clung on for dear life, keeping his eyes closed until he felt hands grabbing his belt. With one more tug, he was hauled aboard and landed unceremoniously on his backside.
Tyrion opened his eyes to the sound of men laughing at him. He looked around at the haggard faces of the men of the Night's Watch. He hadn't encountered these men before, but that was no surprise; he had spent most of his last visit at Castle Black.
Tyrion stood and brushed himself off.
"Fat lotta good this one'll be," said a man with only one front tooth. "Fodder for the wildlings."
"Wildlings won't bother. They're down south of the Wall. Mance wouldn't waste his time with the likes of him. He'd leave him to the white walkers," said another with greasy, greying hair.
"There's no such thing as white walkers," Tyrion huffed.
"Ignorant little fucker," he heard a voice in the background, but couldn't determine the owner.
He remembered his previous time at Castle Black, but it felt like a lifetime ago, passing time made it seem less real. Despite Jaime's assurances, Tyrion still had to plan for a life at the Wall. He would never make a ranger, and if the stories were true, for the first time in his life, he was glad he was a dwarf. Instead, he would be a steward, to Maester Aemon. The place might be cold, but there would be some interesting books.
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The ship had been at sea for eight days. In all that time, Tyrion had never felt so lonely in his entire life. The men of the Night's Watch hardly ever spoke to him, only informing him when his food was ready.
Not that he could blame them. Once he disembarked at Eastwatch, it would be the last he ever saw of them. From their perspective, there was little point in making friends. But that wasn't the only reason. These men were men of the Watch first and sailors second, with a job to do. They hadn't come to King's Landing to collect Tyrion; they were trading, which interested him.
Lord Whitestark had allowed the wildlings to settle south of the Wall in the gift. The land, fertile but uncultivated due to lack of people, now yielded crops thanks to the influx of wildlings. Their efforts appeared to have done wonders for the Night's Watch. They had brought their wares to King's Landing, and the cider was a hit in the Red Keep. Oats, wheat, and barley were being shipped south. The Night's Watch was thriving. This was clear from the quality of their food, which far surpassed what Tyrion had experienced on his previous encounter with their fare.
After breaking his fast, Tyrion wandered onto the deck to search for land or other boats. He knew they had to be somewhere close to the Vale, though how close remained uncertain, and he didn't want to bother the captain. Not that he saw much; the fog had settled, and the ship had come to a standstill.
"Why have we stopped?" Tyrion asked a young, dark-haired sailor passing by.
"It's a pea souper, this one. No point in going any further; could end up lost. Might as well stay where we are until it clears," the sailor replied, before wandering off to his duties.
Tyrion mulled over the sailor's words. Logic told him the lad was right, sailing in such conditions could prove fatal. Yet, a nagging unease gripped him. Such fog provided perfect cover for an Ironborn ambush, they held no fear of the obscured sea. Instead, they used it to their advantage.
He wrapped himself in one of the black robes for warmth, then settled into a chair. There, he propped his feet up, and let his eyes fall shut. An all too familiar ritual to while away the hours on this northern voyage. It was the only way to pass the time.
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A jolt woke Tyrion from his slumber. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and stretched, wondering if the anchor was being raised. That thought lasted only moments before he heard shouts from the deck and the clashing sound of steel against steel.
Opening the door a crack, Tyrion peered outside. Strange men were on board, dressed in bright colours, not Ironborn, Tyrion deduced. They appeared to be of Essosi origin, not the wildlings Jaime had promised.
Had his father or Cersei paid pirates to attack the ship and kill him? It was a plausible explanation. Were the Night's Watch in on it? After all, they had lowered the anchor. The answer came with a sword through the captain's heart. The Watch knew nothing of this attack, and most likely neither did Varys. His family had either planned this attack or it was random. The former seemed more likely in Tyrion's mind.
Though he knew he should help, Tyrion wasn't a man of action, nor one for planning attacks. Instead, he was a survivor—an expert at navigating precarious situations. Today would be no different. There was no point in risking his life when he could offer no swordsmanship support. Better he live to tell the tale and help exact vengeance for the families of the soon-to-be dead sailors.
His small size gave him a distinct advantage over most men his age. Hiding was far easier, for he could slip into different nooks and crannies inaccessible to others. Tyrion's eyes roamed the room; there was little inside, just a few chairs and wooden crates. He ran over to one of the crates and found it empty.
Tyrion climbed inside and pulled the lid shut just in time. He heard the door of the cabin open, cool air seeping in through the tiny holes. Still wearing his cloak, he wrapped it around him, covering his body, and lay on the bottom of the crate. He hoped the pirates would only see a cloak and close the lid again if they opened it.
Closing his eyes, he prayed to every god he could think of as footsteps traversed the room. The sound of crates being opened and wooden lids crashing to the floor echoed in Tyrion's ears, each time making him wince as the noise drew closer.
"Found anything?" a voice with a distinct Essosi accent asked.
"Nothing, captain," the voice of the man searching the room replied.
"Looks like we have the wrong ship," the captain sighed.
"Or they threw him overboard," the other laughed.
"Come, let us loot whatever is valuable. Is there anything of consequence in here?" the captain asked.
"Black robes and worn-out boots," the other man said.
"Let us find the wine and be gone," the captain said, as Tyrion heard the boots of the searcher disappear.
The door closed, but the men continued talking outside, their voices faint. Tyrion could only just make out the words: leave, sink, anchor, and remains. He didn't need to be a genius to understand what they meant to do. They wanted the ship to sink or disappear.
Whoever had paid them wanted to ensure Tyrion was dead, and if he was still aboard, they would sink the ship to kill him. If it weren't so serious, Tyrion would have laughed at the irony. His father wanted to secure the north and take a northern bride for Jaime's wife. Sinking a ship belonging to the Night's Watch was the quickest way to anger the northerners, short of declaring war. His father would know that and wouldn't want to risk it. Which meant Cersei was behind the attack. Not that it mattered for now. Tyrion's priority was getting out of this alive.
When the voices died down, Tyrion climbed out of the crate and crept towards the door. He pressed his ear against the wood, trying to listen for voices, but all he heard was silence. Summoning all his courage, he opened the door ever so slightly, expecting someone to jump out with a sword at any minute, but nothing happened.
Tyrion tiptoed outside his cabin, where he was confronted by the dead bodies of the Night's Watch, blood mingling with the drizzle falling from the grey skies. He looked for the other ship, but it was gone.
Once he was certain the ship was gone, Tyrion searched the vessel for signs of life. Every face he came across belonged to a dead man. He ran down to the supply room. The wine had been taken, but the ale remained. Even in Essos, the notoriety of Night's Watch ale must have been known. There was some food left: cured meat, cheese, bread, and apples. At least he wouldn't starve, yet.
The first task was to get rid of the bodies. It wasn't an easy task for a dwarf, as it meant dragging the dead men to the edge of the ship and hauling them overboard. He supposed he was lucky in one way—the ship was small and manned by only twenty men. If he worked hard, he might have them in the sea by the end of the following day. Only then could he figure out how to escape this mess.
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Tyrion got to work on the grim task. With the deck being wet, pulling the dead bodies wasn't as difficult as he had expected. Some of the men were small and skinny—not a surprise after spending much of their lives eating the shit served at the Wall.
However, the rain, while making it easier to drag the bodies, also caused problems. The corpses became heavier as they soaked up water, and Tyrion was getting cold and wet. After two hours and a total of four bodies now floating in the sea, he sought shelter in the relative warmth of the kitchen. He took off his wet cloak and replaced it with a dry one, which gave him a semblance of warmth. A tankard filled with ale and some crusty bread filled his belly while he tried to consider a way out of the mess. Looking out of the window, he noticed the fog had cleared. That's when he realised the ship was moving.
Tyrion slammed down his tankard and ran to check if the anchor had been lifted. To his surprise, it was in its rightful place. Tyrion sat down, feeling helpless. He did not know how to sail a ship, and even if he did, he couldn't do it alone.
Not having a clue about how to get out of his current situation, Tyrion did the one thing he was good at: he descended back into the kitchen, poured himself more ale, and got drunk. That was when the idea came to him. All the best ones did when he was drunk.
Tyrion would wait until sunrise, steer the ship to the east, and hope they hadn't sailed past Braavos. If so, and the winds were kind, he could hope to make landfall somewhere in Essos within a week. Even if he got drunk every day, there was plenty of ale to last him that long. He sat back, satisfied and aching from all the pulling. An hour later, he was pushing four more bodies over the side of the ship. Everything was easier with either wine or ale in the belly.