Tyrion

He hated to admit it, but the records were absolutely fascinating, he thought as he lay on his bed in the ship and tried not to think about the motion from the sea. He never thought that he could ever say such a thing, but they really were fascinating. He had brought books of his own on this trip and he had actually finished one, a fascinating discourse on the possible cause of the cataclysm that had claimed Valyria.

But it had been the little book on the runes that could be found on certain lower levels of Casterly Rock that had attracted his attention. The book that some Maester called Hamil had written back in the days of his great-grandfather. The runes themselves could be found in an old storeroom to the North of the Rock and he remembered that room quite clearly. When he had been a child he'd once asked Jaime what they had meant – and had been answered with a shrug and a muttered comment about perhaps Uncle Gerion knowing.

Uncle Gerion had smiled and shrugged himself. "Perhaps they date back to Lann himself? Tyrion, we know very little about the early history of the Rock. Keep asking questions my boy! You have quite the enquiring mind! Just – don't ask your father. He has a… set view of the history of our family."

He had heeded that advice. And now he knew why Uncle Gerion had said what he had said. The runes were very old and dated back to the time of the First Men. To the time of Lann, allegedly. And the runes, whilst being unclear, at least hinted at Lann the Clever being purely of the First Men and not part Andal. Which Tyrion found fascinating. What had happened to the Casterlys? How had the Lannisters gotten hold of the Rock – really? Not the legends, not the tales, the truth?

And the other records held other accounts, other odd references. The sending of men North to the Wall. Why? Some kind of ceremony? It sounded like one, something that had long since been abandoned. And then… that reference to 'iyf Glytterglass be founde then worde is to be sent to Ye Stark at once.' Glytterglass? Was that a reference to obsidian? Perhaps it was. Fascinating. But why send word to 'Ye Stark'? For what reason? He had to admit that Uncle Gerion had been right not to mention any of this to Father. For one thing it implied a greater degree of influence for the Starks of Winterfell. But again, why?

Thinking of Uncle Gerion made him pause for a long moment. Where was he? Could he really be dead, in that never-ending quest for Brightroar? He hated to think that that warm smile and that bright wit could ever be gone. The world would be diminished without that man. His world especially. Uncle Gerion was a good man. He still would not – could not – think of him in the past tense. Even is Father had written him off as dead, lost somewhere in the East.

He took a sip of wine and then stared at the wooden walls of his cabin, forcing his mind away from that fell subject. Perhaps this trip was not entirely without interest. And at least this part was not too onerous. By ship from Lannisport to Seaguard and then the ride Northwards. He wasn't looking forwards to the Twins as from all accounts Lord Frey was an old and unpleasant man who liked to wring what he could out of guests. Well, he would pass through as quickly as possible, protected by his family name. His father had given him that at least. No Frey would ever think to get a thing out of a Lannister.

Then he sat up suddenly. Someone up on deck was shouting, quite loudly. He pulled his boots on quickly and then got down and waddled to the door as fast as possible, just in time to nearly get bumped in the face by the door as it was opened by young Jon, the cabin boy.

"Your pardon my lord! The captain's compliments and would you please join him on deck?"

"Lead on," Tyrion muttered and then watched as the boy vanished. He had his suspicions about the lad. He looked so much like Captain Harklin that he strongly suspected that the boy was his bastard son.

Reaching the deck he blinked as men ran past clutching various weapons, all looking either angry or as if they were about to piss themselves in terror. He watched them go by and then climbed the steps to the fore-whatever-it-was, where the captain was peering ahead at something. "Is there trouble ahead good captain?"

Captain Harklin (who had been carping these past few days at the lack of other ships) peered at him and pointed. "We have company. Mayhaps Ironborn, but 'tis too soon to tell."

Tyrion peered cautiously over the gunnel, or whatever it was called. Far ahead there was indeed a sail and it seemed to be heading towards them. "I thought that the Ironborn was supposed to be behaving themselves after the King's noble quest to see how many of their heads he could squash with that Warhammer of his?"

"Oh they have been," Captain Harklin muttered as he peered at the ship through his Myrish spyglass. "But I haven't lived this long in these waters by trusting Ironborn scum as far as I can throw them. They might not reave any more at the moment, but the moment they think they can get away with it they'll go back to their old ways. Wait… Aha! I know that ship. It's old Fosswill's ship, the Sea Bull!"

Blinking hard, Tyrion looked at the man. "I wasn't aware that any such creature existed."

"Oh it doesn't. But he was drunk at the time and it was a better idea than the other ones that he came up with. He started off with Arsekicker and then moved on to Krackenwalloper and then Squidsquasher. A good man, but he lost a brother to the Ironborn and fought with Old Stoneface's fleet at the siege of Pyke."

"'Old Stoneface'?" Tyrion thought about this for a moment. "Do you mean Stannis Baratheon?"

"That's the man. Your pardon – Jon! Fetch me my speaking trumpet! Bos'n prepare to spill the wind a little in the sails! We'll need to lose some speed to speak with him. I like not the fact that we've barely seen an Ironborn ship these past three days."

The ship seemed to come alive as men ran back for forth doing nautical things that involved pulling on ropes and then apparently releasing what looked like the same rope. It made Tyrion tired just watching them. If, the Gods forbid, he ever had to do anything naval he'd do it from the safety of a big chair on the quarterdeck. With a saucy wench in minimal clothing next to him, holding a bottle of wine no doubt.

He was distracted from this appealing thought by the sound of a hail from the other ship, which was also slowing. A man dressed in the same kind of clothes as the captain was standing at the pointy end and was holding a speaking trumpet. "Good Gods," he called out, "Are you still sailing that deathtrap? Hasn't her keel fallen off yet?"

"No better than that old scow you're mishandling over there," Harklin bellowed back through his own trumpet. "Where are you from and where are you bound?"

"Seaguard via Ten fucking Towers, heading to Lannisport. Avoid the Iron Islands my friend."

Harklin frowned as he started to walk towards the blunt end, so as to keep pace with the other man. "Why?"

"They're wailing about their religion again! Damphair's gone mad and is killing people who mention the Old Gods."

A number of crew started at this and muttered, whilst Tyrion looked at the other captain with narrowed eyes. The Old Gods again. Yes, something was most certainly up.

The problem was that he didn't believe what seemed to be happening. Which was a little… inconvenient. Especially given his dreams of late. Those cold blue eyes that stared at him… and then the roar that seemed to split the heavens and shake the earth beneath his feet.

"What do they say?" Harklin shouted.

There was a pause as the other man seemed to think about what he should say. "Some feel the call North. And some heard it. 'The Others come. The Stark calls for aid. You are needed'. The blood of the First Men my friend. May your winds be fair!"

And the other ship was past them, heading on that opposite course. Harklin stared after it and then as if in afterthought he shouted back: "May your winds be fair!" He seemed… stunned. As did more than a few others. And then as Tyrion watched he recovered his wits. "Bos'n, more sail! Take her North a point or two – closer to the wind. All hands, prepare to rig another sail!"

Tyrion watched as the organised chaos thundered past him, before walking slowly and thoughtfully back to his cabin, where he picked up the little book. He was about to plunge back into the joy of research when he heard a knock on the door and he looked up to see Harklin at the entrance.

"We're putting on more sail, so as to get to Seaguard quicker. 'Tis a little risky, but we need to get you to Seaguard as soon possible. If the winds were set right I'd actually pass through the Iron Islands, past Flint's Finger and as far into Blazewater bay as possible, to get you to Moat Cailin, but we cannot do that just now. Besides, you need the Kingsroad and good steeds." He smiled slightly. "I may sail from Lannisport now, but I was born in Ramsgate. I have seen many strange things and heard many strange tales, but right now I am of the North and as you have books and such about the Time of Heroes 'tis my duty to get you to Winterfell at once."

And that Tyrion could do was nod sombrely and say his thanks – and then return to his books.